The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  “I realized then that I was just like him. I told him that I’d gotten bored, and then my dad had come up with this terrific idea for a series. As I listened to him, everything came together in my mind. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I added my own ideas to the first two or three scripts, and my dad was really pleased that I was so interested and that my ideas worked so well.

  “When I told my grandfather what I was going to do, he wanted all the details. He even helped me refine some of my plans. When I left, he laughed and wished me luck, said he wanted to hear how things actually went down because, he said, things never go exactly as planned, and that just makes it all the more fun. I told him he could read all about it in the newspaper.” Linus shook his head, tapped his fingers some more on the desktop.

  “Jesus, it was fun, particularly that priest in San Francisco, your twin brother, Agent Carver. He surprised the hell out of me. It gave me quite a start when you first came in here.”

  Dane wanted to kill the little bastard. He felt Savich’s hand on his arm, squeezing very lightly. He fought for control, managed to keep it. He said, “It’s over now, Linus, all over. You’re dead meat.”

  Linus said, “You do know I’m the one who sent that picture of you and Miss Nick to the media. All I had to do was make a couple of calls to the SFPD to find out who she was. And now she was here, sniffing around, looking at everyone, but I knew she wouldn’t recognize me.”

  Dane said, “But you hired Milton to kill her. You were afraid that she might recognize you eventually.”

  Linus shrugged yet again, his fingertips tapping a mad tattoo. “Why take a chance? Too bad Milton was such a lousy shot.” He looked at Nick. “Pity he missed you. Just a graze. Bummer. But I would have gotten you, Miss Nick, oh yes, I would have killed you dead.” He gave a short laugh, then turned back to the show. He pressed a button, lowering the volume even more. He said, never looking away from the episode playing on the wall, “Father Michael Joseph was my first big challenge. He told me he was going to blow the whistle on me, leave the priesthood if he had to. I was going to kill him anyway, but I had to speed things up.” He looked at Dane and smiled. “It was a beautiful shot. But you know what? The damned priest looked happy, like maybe he realized that he’d saved some lives with his sacrifice. Who can say?”

  Dane was breathing hard now, struggling to keep his hands at his sides, to keep himself from wrapping his hands around Linus Wolfinger’s neck and choking the life out of him. He was a monster, maybe even more of a monster than his grandfather, but that would really be saying something.

  “What did you do with the gun?” Sherlock asked.

  He grinned at her. “Who knows?”

  Dane smiled at him. “You’re going to pay now, Linus. You’re going into a cage and you’re never going to come out except when they walk you down to the execution room to send you to hell.”

  “I don’t think so,” Linus said, lifted his hand, and in it was a gun, a derringer, small and deadly. He aimed it at each of them in turn.

  “Don’t even think about it, Linus,” Savich said. “It’s too late. We don’t want to have to kill you. Don’t make us.”

  Linus Wolfinger laughed. “Do you know running this studio isn’t even much fun anymore? Nothing’s much fun anymore.” He said, in a very good imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger, “Hasta la vista, baby.” He stuck the derringer in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  THIRTY-THREE

  They’d just returned to the Holiday Inn. Linus Wolfinger had been dead for only an hour. It seemed much longer.

  Nick stood in front of the TV and watched John Rothman, senior senator from Illinois, face a slew of cameras and a multitude of shouting reporters.

  “. . . We’re told it’s your wife, Senator, the one everybody believed ran away with one of your aides three years ago. They found her body, but where’s your aide?”

  “. . . Sir, how did you feel when they told you they’d found your wife’s body?”

  “. . . She’s dead, Senator, not off living with another man. Do you think your aide killed your wife, sir?”

  “. . . How do you think this will affect your political career, Senator?”

  Nick simply stared at the TV screen, hardly believing what she saw. She felt a deep pain, and rising rage. John Rothman had finally tracked Cleo down, and killed her. To shut her up. And to get revenge for the letter she’d written to Nick?

  She looked at that face she’d believed she loved, that mobile face that could show such joy, could laugh and joke with the greatest charm, a face that could hide hideous secrets. She watched him perform, no other word for it. He was a natural politician, an actor of tremendous talent. To all the questions, Senator John Rothman said not a word. He stood quietly, like a biblical martyr as stones were hurled at him. He looked both stoic and incredibly weary, and older than he had just a month before. She couldn’t see any fear leaching out of him; all she saw was pain, immense pain. Even she, who knew what this man was, who knew what he’d done, what he was capable of, even she could feel it radiating from him. If she had been asked at that very instant if he’d killed Cleo, if he’d ever killed anyone or tried to kill anyone, she would have said unequivocally no. He was the most believable human being she’d ever seen in her life.

  He continued to say nothing, didn’t change his expression at any of the questions, whether they were insulting or not. All the questions seemed to just float past him. Finally, and only when he was ready, Senator Rothman took a single step forward. He merely nodded to the shouting reporters, the people holding the scores of cameras, made brief eye contact with many of them as he gave a small wave of his hand. Immediately everyone was quiet. It was an incredible power he had, one she’d always admired. Even before she’d met him she’d wondered how he did it.

  Senator Rothman said very quietly, making everyone strain forward, shushing their colleagues so they could hear him, “The police notified me just last night that they’d found my former wife’s body, that it looked like she’d been dead for some time. They don’t know yet how long, but they will do the appropriate testing to find out. Then, we hope they’ll be able to ascertain what happened to her. As you know, I haven’t seen her in more than three years. I would like to ask for your understanding for the grieving family and friends.”

  He took a step back, raised his head, and nodded to the reporters.

  “Your wife’s name was Cleo, right, Senator?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were married how long, sir?”

  “We were married for five years. I loved her very much. When she left, I was devastated.”

  “How did she die, Senator?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she tell you she was leaving you, Senator?”

  “No.”

  “Are you glad she’s dead, Senator?”

  Senator John Rothman looked at the woman who’d asked him that. A very long look. The woman squirmed. He said finally, “I will not dignify that question with an answer. Anyone else?”

  Another TV-news reporter yelled out, “Did you kill your wife, Senator?”

  He didn’t say anything for a very long time, just looked at the reporter, as if he were judging him, and the conclusion he’d reached wasn’t positive. He said, his voice weary, resigned, “It’s always amazed me how some of you in the media, in the middle of a crisis—large or small—are like a pack of rats.”

  There was silence, some shuffling of feet, some angry whispers and outraged faces.

  Nick stared at the man she’d come so close to marrying. Some of the reporters who were furious at what he’d said started to yell out more questions, but stopped. Everyone was looking at him—his face was naked, open, the pain stark and there for everyone to see. She saw tears streaming down his face, saw that he tried to say something but couldn’t. Or pretended to. He shook his head at the straining group, turned, and walked away, his aides surrounding him, a barrier between him and all the repor
ters. Tall, stiff, a man suffering. The reporters, all the camera crews watched him. And the thing was—no one yelled any more questions at him. The sound of the cameras was the only noise. She watched him walk out of the room, a man in pain, his head down, shoulders hunched forward. A tragic figure.

  Nick was shaken. She’d never seen John Rothman cry. She felt a moment of doubt before she quashed it beneath the rippling fear she’d felt when she’d awakened from that dream and known, all the way to her soul, that all three attempts on her life had been made by the same man, the man John Rothman had hired to murder her.

  The fact was that John Rothman had also tracked down his ex-wife and murdered her in cold blood. Or had he hired the same man to kill Cleo Rothman? The autopsy would show that she’d been dead for no longer than four weeks. That was when Cleo had written the letter that had saved her life. Only Cleo had died.

  A local reporter turned and said with great understatement, “Senator John Rothman appears very saddened at the discovery of his wife’s grave by a hunter’s dog yesterday. Cleo Rothman’s remains were identified this morning. We will keep you informed as details emerge from this grisly case.”

  Nick walked slowly to the TV and turned it off. She started shaking, just couldn’t help it.

  She looked up to see Dane watching her from across the room. He was leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

  She hadn’t heard him come in. And that was a surprise. She’d become very attuned to him over the past week. Only a week. It was amazing. She tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. She said finally, “Did you see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no proof, Dane. Nothing’s changed. I know you must have found out that there’s no missing-person’s report on me because I did have the sense to write to my dean at the university about a personal emergency.”

  “And your point would be?”

  He didn’t move, just said when she held silent, his voice very low, “It’s time to tell me all of it, Dr. Campion. There are no more distractions to keep us away from this. Linus is dead. Detective Flynn is with the district attorney deciding what to do about Captain DeLoach, and Weldon will survive. How is Senator John Rothman connected to you, Nick? I want all of it. Now.”

  “Up until three weeks ago, he was my fiancé.”

  “He was what? Jesus, Nick, I want to know how you could get caught up with a man old enough to be your father. I can’t believe that—No, wait, I want to know, but not just yet.” He crossed the space between them, jerked her against him, and kissed her.

  When he let up just a bit, he was breathing hard and fast. Nick’s eyes, once tear-sheened, were now vague and hot. She said into his mouth, “Oh, God. Dane, this is—” She went up on her tiptoes and grabbed him tightly to her. She was kissing him, nipping his jaw, licking his bottom lip, her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, closer still, pushing into him, wanting him. She groaned when his tongue touched hers.

  “Nick, no, no, we can’t—oh hell.” He wrapped his arms around her hips and lifted her off the floor, carrying her to the bed. He’d never wanted a woman like he wanted her. There was so much, too much really. His brother, all the death, and now the damned senator, more confusion, more secrets. No, he couldn’t do this, not the right time, not the right place. He pulled back, lightly traced his fingertip along the line of her jaw, touched her mouth. “Nick, I—” She grabbed him, pulled him flat on top of her.

  “Don’t stop, don’t stop.” She was kissing him all over his face, stroking him, reaching to touch all of him she could reach.

  “Oh hell.” He wanted to cry, to howl. He didn’t have any condoms, nothing. He wasn’t about to take the chance of getting her pregnant. Okay, okay, it didn’t matter, getting himself off wasn’t that important, at least not now. Nick was what was important. She’d been engaged to that damned senator? That old man who looked like an aristocrat, the bastard? Well, no matter, she wasn’t going to marry him, she wasn’t going to marry anyone.

  He stripped her jeans down her hips, off her ankles and threw them on the floor. She was trying to bring him back to her, but he held her, looked a moment at the white panties she’d bought that were French cut, and he had those off her in a lick of time. She was beautiful, he couldn’t stand it. He was breathing hard, so hard, and he was panting. “It’s okay, Nick. Let me give you pleasure. Just hold still, no, don’t try to strangle me. Lie back and let me enjoy you.” He had her legs open, and he was between them, kissing her belly, then he gave her his mouth and within moments she screamed and went wild. God, he loved it, just loved it, and gave her all he could.

  When at last she fell back, her heart pounding nearly out of her chest, breathing so hard she wondered if she would survive, he came up over her. He was harder than the floor, harder than the damned bedsprings, and he hurt. He also knew it was a good thing he had his pants on, otherwise he’d be inside her right this instant. But it just wasn’t important, at least not now. He wondered if there was a drugstore nearby. Hey, a gas station, anyplace that sold condoms.

  He pulled himself over her and began kissing her, slow, easy kisses, and he knew she could feel him. It took a long time before he slowly pulled away from her and sat up on the side of the bed. He looked down at her long legs, flat white belly, and slowly laid his palm flat. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  She gave a small moan, looked surprised, then smiled up at him. “So are you.”

  He grinned. It didn’t hurt quite as much. He was getting himself back together. He forced himself to concentrate on pulling her panties back up, then working on her jeans. Just before he zipped up the jeans, he leaned down and kissed her belly again. Oh God, he wanted her. No, no. He spent several minutes easing her upright, straightening her clothes.

  He paused for a moment, leaned forward, and cupped her face in his palms. “This is just the beginning. You’re wonderful, Nick. But I can’t believe you were engaged to John Rothman.”

  “At this moment, I can’t believe I was either,” she said, and kissed him.

  She leaned forward, resting her face on his shoulder. He stroked her back, up and down. He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought, but he was, closer to floored, actually. “John Rothman is far too old for you. Why would you ever want to marry a man who’s close to the age of your father?”

  His voice sounded back to normal, and so she got herself together and pulled away from him. “John Rothman is forty-seven in years, but much less in the way he looks at things, the way he feels about things. At least that’s what I thought.”

  “If he paraded around naked in front of you, I can’t imagine that you’d be licking your chops, would you?”

  She was so surprised by what he said that she hiccupped. She said, smiling, “I don’t know. I never saw him naked.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why would you care?”

  “It’s really very simple, Dr. Campion. I decided about three days ago that your next fifty years are mine. I saw that they found his wife’s body?”

  “That’s right. Fifty years might not be enough.”

  “He told everyone that she ran away from him? Three years ago? We’ll begin with fifty years, then renegotiate, all right?”

  “Yes, he told everyone she ran away. His senior aide was gone as well, a guy named Tod Gambol, and everyone believed she ran away with him. Yes, all right, we’ll start with fifty years, then go from there.”

  “Was Tod Gambol found with the dead wife?”

  “Evidently not.”

  Dane said slowly, “What happened? Did you find out that she didn’t leave him?”

  “Oh no, Cleo left him, all right. I believed that, no doubt in my mind at all. She’d been gone three years, and he’d divorced her, although she’d never responded, couldn’t be found. Of course I accepted it. I loved him. I was going to marry him.”

  “But she didn’t leave him. He killed her.”

  “Nope. Fact is, she did leave him.”

>   “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I also know that she was alive up to four weeks ago.”

  Dane crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you know that for a fact? Did Senator Rothman assure you that she was alive and well and screwing around with his aide?”

  “No. The bottom line is that Cleo Rothman wrote me a letter. She hasn’t been dead for three years—just for a month, at the most, and the tests they’ll run will prove it. No, John Rothman didn’t kill her three years ago.”

  “Why did she write to you?”

  “To warn me. She told me about the first girl John’d planned to marry, way back just before both of them graduated from Boston College. He killed her because Elliott Benson, a rival, had seduced her. He got away with it, she said, because he was smart, and who would ever begin to suspect a young man who was engaged to be married of suddenly killing his fiancée? The final police verdict was that it was a tragic automobile accident. She said that John cried his eyes out at her funeral, that her parents held him to comfort him.”

  “How could she have found out about that? Did he talk in his sleep? Don’t tell me he confessed it to her?”

  “No, she found a journal in the safe in his library. She wrote that one day she noticed that the safe wasn’t locked. She was curious and opened it.

  “So when she opened it and found the journal, she read it. He wrote all about how he’d killed a girl—Melissa Gransby was her name—how he’d planned it all very carefully and gotten away with it. A simple auto accident on I-95, near Bremerton. She must have written at least a half dozen times in that letter how smart John was, how I had to be careful because I was going to be the next woman he killed. She wrote that John had come to believe that I was sleeping with Elliott Benson, too, just like Melissa did, that I was betraying him, even before we were married.”

  “Who is this Elliott Benson?”