The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  But she didn’t, just kept pleading, trying to grab his knees.

  He leaned down to grab her and pull her upright when Nick suddenly wrapped her arms around his knees and jerked him forward. He yelled, off-balance, and tried to hit her with the gun. Sherlock, who had been waiting, straightened and turned, smoothly sending her foot hard into his left kidney. He went stiff in agony, then yelled. He turned the gun on her, but Nick was hitting his knees, trying to jerk him down again. He struck Nick’s cheek with his fist, then whirled on Sherlock. He tried to back up, but her leg was up and she kicked him in the ribs. He didn’t dive away, ran straight at her and managed to grab a fistful of her hair. He twisted, pulled. Sherlock yelled in pain and rage, and first slammed her fist into his gut, then her foot into his crotch. He yelled, bent over, his finger pulling the trigger of his gun. Two shots went wild. Nick threw herself at his knees, shoved him backward with all her strength. As he fell, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard. He dropped the gun to the deck and fell on his face. Sherlock scooped it up.

  Nick dove on top of him, hitting his face, his neck, yelling, “I’m not pathetic, you murdering jerk! I wouldn’t beg you for anything, you murdering son of a bitch! We got you and you’re going to rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life.”

  Sherlock stood over them, the feeling returning to her hands and feet. “That was quite an act, Nick. Well done.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Nick said, and grinned up at Sherlock.

  Then, suddenly, Dwight moved, lurched up, knocking Nick backward.

  Sherlock said, “Thank you, Dwight,” and she kicked him in the head.

  He crumbled back onto the deck.

  Nick scrambled to her feet, yelling, “You bastard,” and hit him in the belly, then rose and kicked him hard in the ribs.

  She looked over at Sherlock, grinned until she thought her mouth would split, and dusted off her hands.

  “We’re good.”

  Sherlock hugged her close, then leaned back. “We are good, Nick. We’re very good.”

  “No one to match us,” Nick said.

  “Let me get Dillon,” Sherlock said and went to the boat radio. She got the Coast Guard, which was just fine.

  Twenty minutes later, when the Coast Guard launch pulled up to the Crane Island dock, with both Savich and Dane ready to leap onto Rothman’s boat, it was to see both Sherlock and Nick leaning over the side, waving to them.

  “Why am I surprised?” Savich asked to no one in particular. “Thank God.”

  “I’ve got to start breathing again,” Dane said. “Damn, I’ve never been so scared in my life. Just look at them, grinning from ear to ear. Is that Rothman lying facedown on the deck?”

  “Oh no,” Nick said. “It wasn’t Senator Rothman. You guys were right all the time. It was Albia, and this is the man who tried to kill me three times.”

  “Four times,” Sherlock said.

  Dwight groaned, then slumped back on the deck.

  “Hey, Dwight,” Nick shouted to him. “Am I lucky, or what?”

  Dwight didn’t answer. With a scream of rage, he jerked upright, grabbed a knife out of his boot, and went after Nick. She froze. That knife was up, coming toward her, arching downward to her heart, and suddenly she was thrown to the deck onto her back. Dane was on him, both hands locked around his wrist, shaking, tightening.

  Dwight screamed in his face, “You’re the Fed cop. Hey, I nearly got you once, I’ll do it again.”

  “Oh no,” Dane said, let Dwight draw him in closer, then he drove his knee up into Dwight’s groin. He screamed, fell back. Dane slammed his fist into his belly, shoved him down. He was on top of him, slamming his head on the deck. Vaguely, he heard Savich call out. He saw the blur of the knife, realized he’d let his own rage get the better of him. He rolled off Dwight, came up, and when the man came at him again, crouched over, still in bad pain, Dane kicked him in the jaw. He went down like a rock.

  This time he didn’t move. They all watched the knife slowly fall from his fingers.

  “Good move,” Savich said, and squeezed his shoulder. He watched, smiling, as Dane turned, looked at Nick, then slowly brought her against him. They didn’t move for a very long time.

  Sherlock said, “You know what, Dillon? I want to go buy some fat rollers this afternoon. We’ve put it off long enough, don’t you think?”

  Savich laughed.

  EPILOGUE

  She watched Dane place the single white lily on top of Father Michael Joseph’s grave. He straightened, his head down. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying to his brother.

  Finally, he raised his head and smiled at her. He said simply, “Michael loved Easter, and that means lilies.” He paused a moment. “I will miss him until I die. But at least he’s been avenged.”

  “It isn’t enough,” she said. “It just isn’t enough.”

  “No, of course not, but it’s something. Thank you for coming with me, Nicola.”

  “No, please, just call me Nick. I don’t think I ever want to be called that other name again.”

  “You got it. Whatcha say we go take Inspector Delion to lunch?”

  “I’d like that.” She took his outstretched hand. He turned once to look back at his brother’s grave. The single lily looked starkly white atop the freshly turned dirt. Then he looked back at her and smiled.

  Nick said, “Inspector Delion told me about this Mexican restaurant on Lombard called “La Barca.” Let’s go there.”

  He grinned down at her. “You mean all I’ve got to do is give this girl a taco and she’s a happy camper?”

  They walked in silence to the rental car. He said, “I just heard from Savich. Albia Rothman’s hearing was this morning. She pleaded not guilty. And you know what? Dwight Toomer isn’t rolling on her, at least not yet. We’ll have to see how tough the DA is. You’ll have to testify, Nick. It won’t be fun.”

  “No, but maybe we can get justice for Cleo.”

  “It’ll take a long time to come to court. Albia Rothman’s got big-tag lawyers. They’ll stall and evade and file more motions than O.J.’s lawyers. But it will happen. She will go down. It’s not enough, but it’s all we can do. Now, what are you planning on doing, Nick?”

  “You know I resigned from the university.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said, and waited, and thought of the huge box of condoms he had in his briefcase. He smiled even as she said, “I’ve been thinking I’d like to come east, maybe to Washington, D.C., see what’s available for an out-of-work college professor.”

  He stopped, lightly touched his fingers to her cheek, smelled the fresh salty air, and said, “Yes, I think that’s a fine idea. Given your record for getting into trouble, it’s probably smart of you to get as close as possible to the biggest cop shop in the U.S.”

  “I sure hope you’re wrong about that. I don’t even plan on getting a parking ticket. Dane, remember you wanted the next fifty years?”

  “Yes, and then we’ll negotiate for more. I was thinking that someday Sean Savich will be a grown man and just maybe, if we have a girl, she and Sean could get together. What do you think?”

  “Good grief. We’re not even married and you’ve already got our daughter married! Hmmm. To Sean Savich. We’ll have to speak to Savich and Sherlock about some sort of nuptial contract, what do you think?”

  He laughed, took her hand, and felt a bolt of happiness fill him, deep and bright. He turned back once more to see the lily atop Michael’s grave lightly waving in the salty breeze.

  BLINDSIDE

  AN FBI THRILLER

  CATHERINE COULTER

  Contents

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p; 18

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  EPILOGUE

  1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Blindside

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 by Catherine Coulter

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1472-5

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: June, 2004

  TO MY MOTHER

  ELIZABETH COULTER

  1

  It was pitch black.

  There was no moon, no stars, just low-lying rain-bloated clouds, as black as the sky. Dillon Savich was sweating in his Kevlar vest even though it was fifty degrees.

  He dropped to his knees, raised his hand to stop the agents behind him, and carefully slid into position so he could see into the room.

  The window was dirty, the tattered draperies a vomit-brown, with only one lamp in the corner throwing off sixty watts. The rest of the living room was dark, but he could clearly see the teacher, James Marple, tied to a chair, gagged, his head dropped forward. Was he asleep or unconscious? Or dead?

  Savich couldn’t tell.

  He didn’t see Marvin Phelps, the sixty-seven-year-old man who owned this run-down little 1950s tract house on the outskirts of the tiny town of Mount Pleasant, Virginia. From what they’d found out in the hour before they’d converged on this small house, Phelps was a retired math teacher and owned the old Buick sitting in the patched drive. Savich knew from his driver’s license that Phelps was tall, skinny, and had a head covered with thick white hair. And for some reason, he was killing other math teachers. Two, to date. No one knew why. There was no connection between the first two murdered teachers.

  Savich wanted Phelps alive. He wanted the man to tell him why he’d caused all this misery and destroyed two families. For what? He needed to know, for the future. The behavioral science people hadn’t ever suggested that the killer could possibly be a math teacher himself.

  Savich saw James Marple’s head jerk. At least he was alive. There was a zigzagging line of blood coming over the top of Mr. Marple’s bald head from a blow Phelps must have dealt him. The blood had dried just short of his mouth.

  Where was Marvin Phelps?

  They were here only because one of Agent Ruth Warnecki’s snitches had come through. Ruth, in the CAU—the Criminal Apprehension Unit—for only a year, had previously spent eight years with the Washington, D.C., police department. Not only had she brought her great street skills to the unit, she’d also brought her snitches. “A woman can never be too rich, too thin, or have too many snitches” was her motto.

  The snitch had seen Marvin Phelps pull a gun on a guy in the parking lot of a small strip mall, pull him out of his Volvo station wagon, and shove him into an old Buick. The snitch had called Ruth as he was tailing them to this house, and told her he’d give her the whole enchilada for five hundred bucks, including the license plate number of the man taken. Savich didn’t want to think about what would have happened to Mr. Marple if the snitch hadn’t come through.

  But Savich shook his head as he looked at the scene through the window. It didn’t fit. The other two math teachers had been shot in the forehead at close range, dying instantly. There’d been no kidnapping, no overnight stays tied to a chair with a sixty-watt bulb chasing the shadows. Why change the way he did things now? Why take such a risk by bringing the victim to his own home? No, something wasn’t right.

  Savich suddenly saw a movement, a shadow that rippled over the far wall in the living room. He raised his hand and made a fist, signaling Dane Carver, Ruth Warnecki, and Sherlock that he wanted everyone to stay put and keep silent. They would hold the local Virginia law enforcement personnel in check, at least for a while. Everyone was in place, including five men from the Washington field office SWAT team who were ready to take this place apart if given the word. Every corner of the property was covered. The marksman, Cooper, was in his place, some twenty feet behind Savich, with a clear view into the shadowy living room.

  Savich saw another ripple in the dim light. A dark figure rose up from behind a worn sofa. It was Marvin Phelps, the man whose photo he’d first seen just an hour ago. He was walking toward John Marple, no, swaggering was more like it. What was he doing behind the sofa?

  When Phelps wasn’t more than a foot from Marple, he said, his voice oddly deep and pleasant, “Are you awake, Jimbo? Come on, I didn’t hit you that hard, you pathetic wuss.”

  Jimbo? Savich turned up the volume on his directional receiver.

  “Do you know it will be dawn in another thirty-seven minutes? I’ve decided to kill you at dawn.”

  Mr. Marple slowly raised his head. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and with his hands tied behind him, he couldn’t do anything about it. He licked at the dried blood beside his mouth.

  “Yes, I’m awake. What do you want, Philly? What the hell is going on here? Why are you doing this?”

  Philly? The two men knew each other well enough for nicknames.

  Phelps laughed, and Savich felt his skin crawl. It was a mad old laugh, scratchy and black, not at all pleasant and deep like his voice. Phelps pulled a knife from inside his flannel shirt, a long hunting knife that gleamed even in the dull light.

  Savich had expected a gun, not a knife. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Two dead high school math teachers, and now this. Not in pattern. What was going on here?

  “You ready to die, Jimbo, you little prick?”

  “I’m not a prick. What the hell are you doing? Are you insane? Jesus, Philly, it’s been over five years! Put down that knife!”

  But Mr. Phelps tossed the knife from one hand to the other with easy movements that bespoke great familiarity.

  “Why should I, Jimbo? I think I’m going to cut out your brain. I’ve always hated your brain, do you know that? I’ve always despised you for the way you wanted everyone to see how smart you were, how fast you could jigger out magic solutions, you little bastard—” He was laughing as he slowly raised the knife.

  “It’s not dawn yet!”

  “Yeah, but I’m old, and who knows? By dawn I might drop dead of a heart attack. I really do want you dead before me, Jimbo.”

  Savich had already aimed his SIG Sauer, his mouth open to yell, when Jimbo screamed, kicked out wildly, and flung the chair over backward. Phelps dove forward after him, cursing, stabbing the knife through the air.

  Savich fired right at the long silver blade. At nearly the same moment there was another shot—the loud, sharp sound of a rifle, f
ired from a distance.

  The long knife exploded, shattering Phelps’s hand; the next thing to go flying was Phelps’s brains as his head exploded. Savich saw his bloody fingers spiraling upward, spewing blood, and shards of silver raining down, but Phelps wouldn’t miss his hand or his fingers. Savich whipped around, not wanting to believe what had just happened.

  The sniper, Kurt Cooper, had fired.

  Savich yelled “No!” but of course it was way too late. Savich ran to the front door and slammed through, agents and local cops behind him.

  James Marple was lying on his back, white-faced, whimpering. By going over backward he’d saved himself from being splattered by Mr. Phelps’s brains.

  Marvin Phelps’s body lay on its side, his head nearly severed from his neck, sharp points of the silver knife blade embedded in his face and chest, his right wrist a bloody stump.

  Savich was on his knees, untying Jimbo’s ankles and arms, trying to calm him down. “You’re all right, Mr. Marple. You’re all right, just breathe in and out, that’s good. Stay with me here, you’re all right.”

  “Phelps, he was going to kill me, kill me—oh, God.”

  “Not any longer. He’s dead. You’re all right.” Savich got him free and helped him to his feet, keeping himself between James Marple and the corpse.

  Jimbo looked up, his eyes glassy, spit dribbling from his mouth. “I never liked the cops before, always thought you were a bunch of fascists, but you saved me. You actually saved my life.”

  “Yeah, well, we do try to do that occasionally. Now, let’s just get you out of here. Here’s Agent Sherlock and Agent Warnecki. They’re going to take you out to the medics for a once-over. You’re okay, Mr. Marple. Everything is okay.”

  Savich stood there a moment, listening to Sherlock talk to James Marple in that wonderful soothing voice of hers, the one she had used at Sean’s first birthday party. One terrified math teacher wouldn’t be a problem compared to a roomful of one-year-olds.