The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  “Is the guy crazy?”

  Savich stared thoughtfully at Martha Stockton of the Washington Post, who had the reputation of being something of a ditz, but this time she had stripped away the nonessentials really fast. “No, I don’t think he’s crazy in the sense that he’s frothing at the mouth and out of control. He seems to have planned these killings well enough that so far there are no witnesses. Why he’s doing this, we don’t know yet, but I will tell you this: We will find him. We are spending hundreds of man-hours speaking to fellow teachers and former students. We are leaving nothing to chance.

  “Now, I would like to introduce to you some of the family members affected by these tragic killings. These are the widowers of the murdered teachers, Mr. Ward, Mr. Fowler, and Mr. Maddox, whose wife was found just this morning. I believe Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler wish to make a brief statement.”

  Mr. Eli Dobbs of CNN yelled out, “Excuse me, Mr. Maddox, but your wife was just murdered. How do you feel about standing up there with Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler?”

  That show of crassness was par for the course, Savich thought. He raised his hand. “We will take a few questions later. This is a time of grief and shock for these gentlemen. You might consider their circumstances before you ask your questions.”

  Troy Ward stepped forward and grabbed the edges of the podium. “I want to thank all those who have sent me cards and e-mails. The police are doing their best, I know, and I just want to thank everyone for their support and their thoughtfulness to me and my wife’s family at this terrible time.” With that, he stood back from the podium, his eyes on his shoes.

  “You didn’t call this Sunday’s Ravens game, Mr. Ward,” Eli Dobbs said. “What are your plans?”

  Troy answered, but without the microphone in front of him, the reporters had to strain to hear him. “I’m planning to announce the game this Sunday. My wife would have wanted life to go on.”

  Gifford Fowler took his turn at the podium. He said simply, “My wife was the love of my life. I miss her every moment,” and he also thanked the public. He didn’t step back, though, and looked like he wanted questions.

  “Mr. Fowler, we’ve been told you’re going to speak at the Rotary Club this Wednesday.”

  Gifford Fowler said, “They said they wanted to show their support, to share their time with me for an evening. I am very grateful to them for inviting me.”

  Savich cut it off, stepping back to the podium. He wasn’t about to have Mr. Maddox in front of this group. His loss was too new, his control too tenuous. Besides, the world had seen them up close and personal. It was enough.

  “Have your computers been of any help yet, Agent Savich?”

  “Is MAX going to stand up there and announce the killer?”

  There was laughter.

  Savich smiled. “MAX is a tremendous tool. But here’s the truth: Crimes are solved by good old-fashioned police work. And that’s what we’re doing, as fast and as hard as we can. Thank you for coming.”

  When it was all over, Savich gave Sherlock a small salute, then turned to speak to the three widowers. “I thank you for coming. I think it makes a difference. Of course there’ll be more questions. I will be in touch with each of you. As soon as we know something, we’ll let you know.”

  He shook hands with all of the men, then watched them closely as they trailed out, following an agent through the rear door.

  Sherlock took his hand and said in a whisper, “That was quite a performance. Do you think it was worth it?”

  He turned, cupped her face in his hands, and said, “I think so. We’ll see.”

  Later that night, back home in Georgetown, Sean was asleep on his father’s shoulder after helping his parents eat a late dinner of his father’s pesto pasta. Sherlock said while she heated some hot water for tea, “Miles called. Dr. Raines is still seeing Sam. Miles thinks it’s best to keep him with her for a while longer. Also, he can’t imagine separating Sam and Keely just yet.”

  “I can’t imagine it either,” Savich said. “Sam is probably as safe there as at home, and Katie has a couple of deputies around him whenever she or Miles can’t be with them. I’ll bet he’ll get Katie to take him to see the McCamys.”

  Sherlock nodded. “You’re probably right. And right now, I can’t imagine Sam being away from Keely either.”

  “Yeah,” Savich said slowly, as he watched her pour his tea into his favorite Redskins mug, “and I was wondering how Miles would do away from the sheriff.”

  Sherlock shrugged. “Two very strong people slapped together in a mess like this . . .”

  “Yeah, but let’s keep out of it, Sherlock. Neither of us has a clue as to what will happen between them, if anything.”

  “The children are very important to both of them,” she said. The phone rang and she turned to answer it. It was Agent Dane Carver, to catch Savich up on his case in Miami.

  On Wednesday morning Savich was so stiff and sore, he knew he had to do something. Walking on the treadmill sounded like just what he needed. He’d forgotten all about Valerie Rapper. But evidently she hadn’t forgotten him. She was there at the gym, waiting for him. Did the woman have spies? Her timing was incredible.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning,” he said.

  “I sometimes like to work out in the mornings. I saw you on TV last night, Agent Savich,” she said, looking over at him as she pressed in ten minutes on the treadmill next to him. “Those poor husbands, I guess you really wanted to remind the public how horrific all this is, and that’s why you showed them off.”

  Savich grunted again. His back was sore, but the walking was helping to loosen it up a bit. Sherlock had bandaged him up really well, knowing he wouldn’t do anything too stupid, but since she’d been muttering under her breath at the time, he wasn’t sure.

  “What’s wrong? You’re moving like you’re hurt. What happened?”

  There was real concern in her voice. He looked over at her and said in his mildest, most unthreatening voice, “Nothing’s wrong. Just a pulled muscle.”

  “I thought you were moving a bit stiffly on television last night.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He looked pointedly down at the book he was reading.

  “Would you go for a cup of coffee after you’re finished working out? I’m buying.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, Ms. Rapper, but I’m married. I don’t go out for coffee with other women even if they’re offering to pay.”

  She laughed. “Sure you can. It’s no big deal. I’m not going to seduce you, Agent Savich, it’s only a cup of coffee, a bit of conversation.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to loosen up a bit, have a bit of fun. I know, I know, what fun can you have over coffee? It’s possible, I swear.”

  Savich said, “You’ve probably seen my wife here at the gym—red curly hair, big blue eyes. She’s also an FBI agent. Her name’s Sherlock.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “What? Hair? Name? The fact that she’s an agent?”

  “Her name,” she said, looking into the mirror behind Dillon Savich. “Her name is ridiculous.”

  “Rapper’s pretty funny, too.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “Yes,” she said slowly, “perhaps it is.” She looked at him again, but he couldn’t begin to read her expression. She punched the stop pad, stepped off the treadmill before it stopped, and walked away. She said over her shoulder, giving him a profile that she knew was superb, “You just think about having coffee with me, Agent Savich, all right?”

  She was gone before he could answer.

  27

  It was a beautiful Wednesday morning. Katie looked up at the blue sky with its fat scattered white clouds, and followed them to the ever-present wall of mountains just off to the east. They were covered with maple, poplar, beech, and sugar maples in gorgeous reds and bright yellows and golds, the pines and firs holding to their green. Even the browns looked lustrou
s, magical, a magnificent palette of colors. There was simply no more beautiful a spot in the world than eastern Tennessee in the late fall. It was about fifty-five degrees, just enough nip in the day for her leather jacket. She breathed in the delicious smell of leaves mixed with the smoke from wood-burning fireplaces. Moments like this made Katie wish she could put off winter, with its frigid winds and snow and stripped-down trees.

  She kept the engine running as she watched Miles lead Sam and Keely to Minna’s front porch. He leaned down, spoke to both children, and touched each of them—Sam’s arm and Keely’s hair. They both hugged him, then ran to Keely’s grandmother when she opened the front door. Chocolate chip cookies, Katie thought, remembering her excitement when she’d been a kid. She watched the two deputies take their positions, guarding the house with Sam and Keely in it. She made another sweep of the area. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Sam seemed just fine to Katie, thank God. This morning he groused and complained, just like Keely, when Katie had given him oatmeal and not Cheerios, an excellent sign. Miles hadn’t helped when he’d looked at the oatmeal, blinked, and said he’d always thought oatmeal was good for making grout, but not eating. The kids had laughed, and Katie, just smiling, waited, until he took a big spoonful, rolled his eyes and said, “This is the best grout I’ve ever eaten. Here, Sam, take a bite of this.” And Sam had said he loved it, and tried to roll his eyes just like his dad. There’d been laughter at the breakfast table, and that had felt very good. She’d also found herself smiling at Miles for no good reason she could think of.

  Sam would see Sheila again today, in the early afternoon, but Sheila had told her and Miles that Sam talked more about Keely now and how he’d stuffed tons of leaves down her shirt. He talked more about Jessborough and Mrs. Miggs at the quilt shop who gave the children peppermints than he did about his kidnapping or about Clancy and Beau. It was a good sign, a very hopeful thing. Sheila was sure he wasn’t holding back. He was a resilient little kid.

  He was more than that, Katie thought, much more than that, especially to her, and that wasn’t particularly wise. She got out of her truck and walked up the driveway. All was clear.

  When Miles joined her, he said, “I doubt they’ll even give us a thought. Your mom is the best, Katie.” He paused a moment, drew in a deep breath, reached out his hand to touch a vivid gold maple leaf and said, “How much longer will it look like God’s country around here?”

  “Another two, three weeks, at most,” she said. “Then the storms start coming. We have snow mostly in February and March. And that’s beautiful, too. But right now? This is perfect.”

  He walked automatically to the driver’s side of Katie’s Silverado, then stopped, frowning.

  “No, go ahead and drive.” She tossed him the keys.

  He saw the lock box on the floor in the back that held her rifle, the rifle she’d used to save Sam.

  He said as he fastened his seat belt, “Those two deputies, they’re good?”

  She nodded, feeling exactly what he was feeling. “Cole and Jeffrey will really keep their eyes open. They both saw what happened at my house when Clancy and Beau went down, so they know this is way out of the ordinary. They’re so wired, in fact, I told them to stick to decaf. This was the first time either of them had been involved in any real violence professionally.”

  “What kind of training do your deputies get?”

  “They all have a ten-week training course at the law enforcement academy in Donelson, near Nashville. My people have also taken courses at the local junior college—Walters State, you know, law enforcement and judicial courses. Wade is trying to get so many courses under his belt that—well, never mind.”

  “Is he the one who might be trying to get your job?”

  She gave him a sunny smile. “No chance of that.”

  Miles liked that smile of hers, and the mouth that made those smiles, and that gave him pause. He didn’t have to move the seat back much at all. He looked over at her, an eyebrow arched. “What do you mean they haven’t seen violence? Violence is part of their job, isn’t it?”

  Katie laughed. “Jessborough isn’t Knoxville or Chattanooga. The toughest thing any of them has had to do here in the sheriff’s department of Jessborough is round up Mr. Bailey’s cows after they were spooked by a low-flying crop duster in August. This is a small town with very few bad outside influences. No hard drugs, just some pot our locals grow, and an occasional still deep in the hills, which is kind of a tradition around here. Most people consider that good clean fun.” She paused a moment, looked out the window, and said, “We had nothing but peace here until this happened. I have ten deputies, all of them men. The testosterone has been flowing madly since I got Sam on Saturday.”

  “Linnie is some dispatcher.”

  “Yes, she’s excellent, knows everyone’s problems, knows about all their relationships, even the illicit ones. She’s the backbone of the department. I would seriously consider hurting anyone who tried to take her away from me.”

  She directed him to the big Victorian on Pine Wood Lane. As he looked at the house, realized who lived there, he felt his insides chill.

  Her hand was light on his forearm. “We will be professional about this, Miles. Do you agree?”

  He nodded. “I swear I won’t tie up either of them in their playroom.”

  “Good.”

  “But I was thinking I’d like to see what they’ve got in there.”

  “You into whips and handcuffs?”

  “Not that I know of.” He looked thoughtful, grinned at her, and said, “I promise not to drop-kick them out one of those big front windows either.”

  “Good,” she said again. “We got some new cards to play. If we do it really carefully, something might pop.”

  Katie pressed the doorbell, heard a light footfall. A few moments later, Elsbeth McCamy answered. She looked just like she always looked: hot. It always amazed Katie that she was with Reverend McCamy, who was so dark and serious and intense, his entire being seemingly focused inward on the state of his soul. Every word out of his mouth was a paean to his God, and to his notions that men should be victims of His love. Victim of love—what a strange choice of words, but now it had a new meaning to her.

  Katie looked at the woman standing there in tight jeans, a red spandex top, and the Jesus earrings and thought about the sex room upstairs with that padded wooden block. She wondered what his congregation thought of Elsbeth, but truth be told, she’d never heard anything that indicated anyone thought them mismatched or that a sexpot like her shouldn’t be a preacher’s wife. Like nearly all people in Jessborough, they never caused trouble.

  Katie nodded but didn’t extend her hand. “Elsbeth.”

  “Hello, Katie. Why are you here?” She wasn’t looking at Katie, she was studying Miles Kettering, a perfect eyebrow hiked up. “You were in church on Sunday.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re the boy’s father.”

  “Elsbeth, this is Miles Kettering, and yes, he’s Sam’s father. We would very much like to speak to you and Reverend McCamy.”

  “Reverend McCamy is ministering to two of his flock,” Elsbeth said. “Mr. and Mrs. Locke. They’re in his study. I don’t expect him to be free for another half hour or so.”

  “May we speak to you until he’s free?”

  It was quite obvious she didn’t want to let them in, but she couldn’t think of a reason to keep them out. Grudgingly, Elsbeth stepped back.

  “This way,” she said. “I’m making some brownies for Reverend McCamy. They’re his favorite. Where is your son, Mr. Kettering?”

  “Sam is at the sheriff’s department, supervising all the deputies.”

  Elsbeth laughed. “He’s a cute little boy. Is Keely with him?”

  “Oh yes,” Katie said. “They’ve become inseparable.” Now, why had Miles lied about Sam’s whereabouts?

  “It’s comforting to know what we get for our tax dollars, isn’t it?”

  Katie
said, “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “Are you really?”

  “Yes. I’m a sheriff, not a killer. I can’t imagine Reverend McCamy liking brownies.”

  “Why ever not? He has quite a sweet tooth.”

  Katie shrugged. “Somehow I think of him as always being too above all of life’s pleasures, immersed in his work—”

  “His calling,” Elsbeth said, frowning. “It’s not his work, it’s his calling. God chose him above all others to lead the common man to Him.”

  “Not women, too?”

  “Of course,” she said, her voice cutting. Then she lowered her voice as if someone were trying to overhear. “God has granted him His grace, he is God’s messenger, so special that God gave him the beauty of suffering.”

  Miles said, “What do you mean ‘suffering,’ Mrs. McCamy? How can there be beauty in suffering?”

  “It can be a gift to us, Mr. Kettering. Reverend McCamy likes his brownies with pecans, lots of pecans.”

  When Katie and Miles were settled at the kitchen table with cups of coffee in front of them, Katie said, “I heard a rumor, Elsbeth. I’d like to scotch it and so I figured the only way to know the truth is to come out and just ask.”

  Elsbeth turned, a can of cocoa in her hand. “What rumor?”

  “That you and Reverend McCamy are thinking about leaving the area.”

  Elsbeth nearly dropped the can. “Goodness, where did you hear that, Katie?”

  She was aware that Miles was wondering what she was up to. She just smiled, sipped her coffee, and wondered if indeed Reverend McCamy had been seen going into a real estate office in Knoxville. She said as she watched Elsbeth’s hand shake as she measured a teaspoon of baking powder into the mixing bowl, “You know rumors—they’re talked about everywhere but don’t seem to begin anywhere.”