CALLIE MARKHAM’S APARTMENT
GEORGETOWN
THAT SAME EVENING
BEN RANG the doorbell.
A good three minutes later the front door opened and Callie stood there, wearing old sweats and thick socks on her feet. Her hair was uncombed, and her face was scrubbed clean. She squeaked. “I should have known you’d catch me looking like the rag queen. You’re early. I haven’t put on the little black dress yet.”
He stepped in, pulled her against him, and kissed her. “I don’t care. I wrapped up a case early and I wanted to see you, maybe celebrate with a good-quality beer.”
“I’ve got some Coors stashed in the fridge for our Super Bowl party.”
As he followed her through the living room and into the kitchen, he was struck, as he usually was, by the number of books. They were everywhere, on every surface, overflowing every bookshelf, even though three entire walls of the living room were covered with built-ins. And there were flowers, three vases of them, Christmas cacti blooming wildly, and at least half a dozen different kinds of ivy, all trailing happily over surfaces to the floor. A good dozen bright pillows were tossed on every chair and sofa. Even the rugs that covered the wooden floor were bright, each a different style. It was warm and inviting. He liked being in the room, watching TV, reading, making love with Callie. It felt like home. He lightly touched his hand to her shoulder. “Have I told you how much I like your apartment?”
“Sounds to me like you’re laying down some pretty broad hints here, Ben.”
“It’s bigger than my place. You’ve got a guestroom, and your office is really too big for you. You need another body in there to make it feel like home.”
“You mean like Dillon and Sherlock’s?”
“Something like that. Remember you told me I was a natural?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“What did you mean by that?”
She looked at the white curtains splotched with red poppies covering the kitchen windows that Janette had sewn for her. She closed her eyes a moment, drew a deep breath, and looked down at her nails. She needed a manicure.
“Well? What do you say? You want to marry me?”
Very slowly, she turned back and stepped against him, wrapped her arms around his back. She said against his neck, “For such a guy, that wasn’t a bad proposal at all. I’ll think about it.”
“Fair enough. Then I’ll tell you I love you if you’ll say it at the same time. On three?”
“I’m counting,” she said, and clicked off her fingers. They were both laughing when they shouted out at the same time, “I love you!”
Later, when they were sitting on the sofa, Callie on his lap, leaning against his shoulder, Ben said, “I know you’re grieving for your stepfather, but I was wondering if there was something else, Callie.”
“What do you mean—?”
He talked right over her. “Sometimes you look a million miles away, like you’re thinking about something that’s taking you elsewhere.”
She was silent.
“I hope you feel you can tell me anything, Callie.”
She raised her head and looked him squarely in the eyes. “What happened, Ben—Günter dying like he did—it was for the best. I know that.”
He nodded, waited.
“I guess I mean that it’s over. All of it, and there’s only the aftermath to deal with and I’m doing that.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Did I tell you that I am very happy you’re in my life?”
She watched his expression lighten, saw humor come back into his eyes. He was grinning as he said, “Tell me every day, okay. You want to know something?”
“Since I’m maybe even practically engaged to you, I guess I can handle anything you want to tell me.”
“I think you’re a natural too.”
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
EPILOGUE
READERS AND CRITICS PRAISE POINT BLANK
“A dizzying dash involving kidnapping, near-misses, murder, and a manhunt. Her readers are guaranteed a happy ending.”
—The Sacramento Bee
“Full-blown intrigue . . . Coulter deftly orchestrates her fast-paced, intricate story threads and the disparate cases challenging her agents with a concertmaster’s touch.”
—BookPage
“Love in all its forms, some of which can be quite twisted, lies at the heart of this stimulating and gritty new thriller. Coulter’s FBI books have their own special style which, when added to the spine-tingling suspense, supplies edge-of-your-seat thrills.”
—Romantic Times
“Brilliant and enthralling . . . Fans of Tami Hoag, Iris Johansen, and Kay Hooper will want to read Catherine Coulter’s latest suspense thriller . . . Ms. Coulter once again delivers a work brimming with action, chase scenes, and terrific characterizations.”
—The Best Reviews
“I just got through reading Point Blank. Great book. The two plots were classic Coulter style, which I love. The way you throw the readers right into the thick of the action is so captivating and thrilling. Congratulations on the book.”
—Lee Shackelford
“I have just finished Point Blank . . . What a lovely attention-grabber that one was . . . Such a tricky way to track the evil ones. You do good, and I love every one of your FBI series.”
—Marie Kahler
“Well, you did it again! You knocked my socks off with another great mystery, Point Blank.”
—Joe Nicolo
“You’ve done it once again. I didn’t get anything done because I picked up [Point Blank] first thing in the morning, and by bedtime it was finished. My husband almost didn’t get any dinner. He asked, ‘Is that book really that good?’ Yes, it was.”
—Carol Henson
“You did it again! Another great novel! I love the FBI series and all the characters. Keep up the good work. Your novels are great!”
—Joyce Hemminger
“I just bought Point Blank yesterday and finished it this morning. All I have to say is that it was the best out of all the FBI series. I have read almost all of your books. It was so suspenseful that I had a hard time putting it down to go to sleep at three in the morning. I love Savich and Sherlock together; they make a great team, and I hope they are in more books in this series because I really enjoy them. Once again, incredible book.”
—Francean Baxter
“Well, just this morning I finished reading Point Blank. You did a great job on that book. My thinking is that you are truly amazing. I look forward to whatever is next. Thank you.”
—Ernie Dalleske
“All I can say is WOW!!! Point Blank is one of your best! The first chapter was so graphic and well written I felt claustrophobic as Ruth walked through the cave and I groped through the darkness myself. A wonderful story and a great read! Thanks again!”
—
Laurie McGrath
“Oh, it was the best! . . .You kept me going, Ms. Coulter, you really did. Keep writing.”
—Aimee Sordelli
DON’T MISS CATHERINE COULTER’S FBI THRILLER SERIES
THE COVE (1996)
THE MAZE (1997)
THE TARGET (1998)
THE EDGE (1999)
RIPTIDE (2000)
HEMLOCK BAY (2001)
ELEVENTH HOUR (2002)
BLINDSIDE (2003)
BLOWOUT (2004)
POINT BLANK (2005)
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
POINT BLANK
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To Anton We’ve got a winner here. Thank you for being who and what you are, and thank you for being mine.
CHAPTER 1
WINKEL’S CAVE
MAESTRO, VIRGINIA
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
RUTH WARNECKI PAUSED to consult her map, even though she’d read it so many times it was worn and stained from use, with a smear of strawberry jam on one corner. Okay, she’d walked and crawled down this twisting passage exactly the 46.2 feet indicated on the map. She’d measured it carefully, just as she’d measured all the distances since she climbed down into that first offshoot passage at the end of the cavern’s entrance. A narrow and twisty passage, smelling strongly of bat guano, some lengths of it so low she’d had to crab-walk, it had finally flattened out. So far the distances had matched those on her map to the centimeter.
At this point, there should have been a small arched opening directly to her right. She focused her head lamp some eight feet up to the top of the cave wall then slowly scanned downward. She didn’t see an arch or any sign there’d ever been one. She went over the directions again to this point, rechecked the distances, but no, she hadn’t screwed that up. Again, she shone her head lamp on the cave wall, moved back and forth at least three feet in both directions. Nothing. She was in the right spot, she knew it.
Ruth rarely cursed when she was frustrated. She hummed instead. And so she hummed as she began to glide the palms of her hands slowly over the wall, pushing inward here and there. The wall was limestone, dry to the touch, eons of sand filming over it. Nothing but a solid cave wall.
She was disappointed, but she knew that was a fact of life for a treasure hunter. Her old uncle, Tobin Jones, a treasure hunter for fifty years, and something of a mentor to her, had told her that for every authentic treasure map, there are more fraudulent ones than illegal aliens in California. Of course that was because every fraudulent map was a treasure in itself if it sucked in the right mark. Problem is, Tobin had said with a shake of his head, we’re all suckers. But that, he’d always believed, was better than those idiots traipsing over an empty ballpark or a beach with their metal detectors, looking for nickels.
Actually, she used metal detectors, had a portable one attached to her belt along with two more flashlights. Yes, she understood all about fake treasure maps, but she’d really been excited about this one. All her research had led her to believe it could be the real deal. Even the age of the paper, the ink, and the manner of writing tested out—about 150 years old.
But there was no arch. She felt the crash of disappointment again and kicked the cave wall. There was always frustration, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been taken before. There were the two fraudulent maps that had sent her after the guys who’d sold them to her; they’d known she was a cop, the morons. Then there was the Scotsman who sold her a map of a cave not a quarter of a mile west of Loch Ness. She should have known better, but he was so charming she’d believed him for one delicious moment.
She shook her head. Pay attention. This map wasn’t a fraud, she felt it in her gut. If there was gold here, she intended to find it. If there wasn’t an arch, maybe it had crumbled and filled in over the long years.
Yeah, right. She laughed at herself, an odd, creepy sound in the dense silence. What an idiot. The arch certainly could have collapsed, but it would remain visible. Debris from a cave-in would remain in situ for longer than time itself. Nothing would magically occur to fill it in from bottom to top so seamlessly.
Only men could do that.
She stepped back, lifted her head so her head lamp shone directly on the wall. She studied every inch of it, pressing inward with her fist everywhere she could reach. Mr. Weaver had told her this part of Winkel’s Cave had never been explored, much less mapped. Even though he appeared worried for her, he still had a gleam in his eye at the thought of splitting any treasure she found.
It was the feel of the cave, she thought, the way the silence felt, the hollow sound of her footsteps. She was sure no one had been in this cave for a very long time, perhaps since the gold was left here. Mr. Weaver had installed an iron grate to close off the entrance—fools injuring themselves, suing him, he’d told her. He couldn’t find the key, but that hadn’t mattered. The lock had been child’s play to pick.
Finally, she stepped back and hummed some more. If someone had filled in an arched opening, they did it remarkably well. She could find no seams, nothing that looked out of place or staged. She sat back against the opposite cave wall and retied one of her walking boots. She realized she was tired. She pulled out an energy bar, her favorite peanut butter, and slowly began to eat it, washing it down with water from the plastic bottle fastened to her belt. Still sitting, she raised her head to train her lamp again on the opposite wall. She was beginning to hate that frigging wall. She began at the top, and slowly scanned all the way to the bottom again.
She saw something,
about two feet above the floor, where the light reflected differently. She crawled to the wall and studied the thin shadow she’d seen. There, that was it, a line of dust and dirt about a half an inch wide.
Ohmigod, it wasn’t just a line; it was shaped like an arch.
She felt her adrenaline spike. She looked more closely and saw that someone had gouged the arch deeply into the wall. She touched it with her fingertip, lightly pushed inward. Her finger sank easily through years of soft, thick dust, up to her first knuckle. She knew one thing for sure now. The accumulation of dust in that grooved arch was decades older than she was. She wondered how many more years would have to pass before the arch outline disappeared entirely. Who had cut this arch and why, for heaven’s sake? Or was it a cover of some kind?
Ruth lightly pushed against the limestone directly below the top of the arch. To her astonishment, it gave a little. She laid her palm flat against the wall and gave a sharp push. The stone fell back some more. Her heart kettledrummed in her chest. The stone was light enough that she could dig it out. She pulled the small pick from her belt and went at it; the limestone crumbled, and suddenly she was staring at a small round hole.
She leaned forward, but the hole was too small for her to see anything in the chamber beyond. And there was a chamber beyond, the chamber she was looking for. Grinning like a madwoman, Ruth continued to use the pick on the limestone below the line of the arch. The stone broke apart, collapsing inward into the next chamber. When she’d cleared it out, it was no bigger than a St. Bernard doggie door, but it was large enough to look into. Shoving dirt out of the way, she stuck her head through the opening. She saw nothing but a floor. Pulling her second flashlight out of her belt she beamed both it and her head lamp straight ahead, then slowly to the right, then back to the left. The light faded into endless black, without reflection.
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 124
