The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  He was doing eighty, but he couldn’t see the truck. He supposed they might have cut their lights. “Penny, can you see the truck?”

  “It’s in and out.”

  “Emory, pass Penny your Remington so she can try to shoot their tires when I get us close enough. I want these morons alive.” The Remington bolt-action was Emory’s pride and joy, but he didn’t argue since Penny could out-shoot anyone in the department.

  In that instant, a bullet slammed into the corner of the windshield, spiderwebbing the glass.

  “Son of a bitch!” Emory yelled.

  “Penny, pull back in!” Dix shouted as he slowed and swerved.

  “Give me the rifle already, Emory. It’s time for some payback!”

  “Dammit, Penny, be careful.”

  She laughed, and checked that she had five live rounds. Penny was a lioness, Dix thought, no fear at all, and he sped up to get closer. He saw the truck, speeding as well, keeping the distance between them about constant. Penny fired once, twice, all five rounds, quick and controlled, into the dense falling snow.

  Dix could barely make out the truck, but in that moment he saw a flash of light, low, near the back left tire.

  He yelled to Penny, “I think you hit something, maybe a rear light.”

  “Yeah, I think so, too,” Penny said as she jammed five more rounds Emory handed her into the Remington. “Hey, Emory, nice gun. This barrel is heavier than my mother-in-law.”

  Claus yelled, “There’s a guy leaning out the passenger window. Watch out, Penny!” Penny had already pulled back in. They heard six rapid rounds, and the sound of two bullets pinging against their right fender and the front grill. Penny hung herself out the window again, fired another five rounds quickly. “We’ve got to get closer, Sheriff. I can’t see well enough to hit a tire.”

  He was doing eighty in a near blizzard, and pressed the accelerator to ninety. He heard Claus shouting to Penny and firing his Glock out the driver’s-side rear window to give her cover or at least to distract the guys in the truck.

  Penny fired again after Emory fed her more rounds, slowly this time so she wouldn’t drop them with her cold hands.

  There was a ferocious roar. The flash he’d seen earlier flared up like a night beacon, a huge circle of blinding white reflected blue in the thick, spearing snow. Dix heard Penny cry out, saw Emory jerk her back in. A bullet had hit her just as the truck blew. The world froze, shrank to a pinpoint in the next second as he watched flames whip up through the thick swirling snow, orange as the prisoner overalls in the Loudoun County lockup, rip twenty, thirty feet into the sky, red and orange, thick black plumes of smoke rising all around them.

  Dix was already pressing on the brake when the truck exploded in a deafening roar that sounded like the thunder of drums. They drove right through the fireball with debris flying at them. A slice of black metal scraped along the top of the cruiser, without breaking through the roof. A foot lower and it could have killed all of them.

  Dix kept pressing the brake, trying to hold it steady until the cruiser slid into a slow skid. Dix prayed as he lifted his foot off the brake and steered into the skid, and slowly, finally, straightened the cruiser again.

  “Sheriff! Ohmigod!”

  Dix thought his heart would stop. A flaming tire was rolling toward them at a manic speed. Dix spun the wheel to the right and the tire crashed into their rear end, slammed them forward, then sharply to the left.

  “Everyone, hang on!”

  They ripped through the guardrail still moving fast and plowed into a field filled with snow. Small bits of ash rained down around them.

  The cruiser came to a stop ten feet from the guardrail on fairly level ground, luckily well away from the thick stand of oak trees on the side of the road. A snowbank a good four feet deep stopped them dead.

  Penny was slumped in the front seat, Claus’s arms holding her back from the windshield. Her head was bleeding.

  Dix felt a moment of dizziness, shook it off. He pulled off Penny’s wool cap and pressed it hard against the wound at the side of her head. “Let’s get her to the road. The cruiser’s done. Claus, call nine-one-one.”

  They pulled Penny carefully from the front seat and Emory carried her back to the highway as tenderly as he carried his baby daughter.

  They saw sparks flying from a live wire that suddenly leaped toward them, coiling and uncoiling wildly. The wire suddenly snapped at Claus, nearly got his leg before he jumped back. They watched the wire finally settle into the snow, sparks still leaping out of the end of it.

  Dix said, “Everyone okay?”

  “Just shook up a bit, Sheriff,” Emory said as he leaned over Penny, checking her pupils. “But Penny, her head’s still bleeding and she’s unconscious. I don’t like how she looks at all.”

  Claus cocked his head. “I hear sirens. We’ll have help real soon.” He looked at the flaming truck. “Nope, it sure don’t look good for the bad guys.”

  CHAPTER 9

  MADONNA WATCHED THE sheriff hug his boys against him. They had been terrified for him, but they were boys and they were trying as hard as they could not to show it. They were silent, but they clutched their father so hard he must have had trouble breathing. She knew they weren’t talking because they were afraid if they did, they’d cry. As for her, she felt helpless, useless as a eunuch on his wedding night, and hated it.

  Dix spoke quietly to his sons, telling them he was very proud of them, and he thanked them for watching over Madonna, which made her smile for a moment.

  Finally, Rob pulled away. He stared up at his father. “There’s blood on your face.”

  “It’s not mine, don’t worry.”

  “You scared the shit out of us!” Rob drew back his fist and slammed it against his father’s arm.

  “Don’t cuss,” Dix said automatically. He rubbed his arm, grinned down at his boy. “Not bad. You’re going to lay me flat in a couple of years. You guys give Madonna any grief?”

  “Nah,” Rafer said, taking a bit longer than his older brother to pull himself together. “She made cocoa and we told her the story about old man Steeter’s house, how he used to steal little kids and hold them prisoner. She said she couldn’t tell us any stories because she doesn’t remember any.”

  Dix raised his eyebrows. “That story would certainly make her feel better tonight, made her wish she’d made up a story for you.”

  Rob said, “Madonna wants to see the house, see if there are any secret passageways.”

  Dix said to her, “Old Mr. Steeter died some ten years ago, left his big old Victorian house to a nephew who never came to claim it, lots of legalities preventing anyone from buying it and fixing it up. The kids around here make a big deal out of it.”

  Madonna said, “It would be fun to explore if you swear no kid-ghosts would come out after us. You want a cup of cocoa, Sheriff?”

  “That’d be great.” Dix stripped off his coat and gloves, excused himself to wash the blood off his face in the downstairs bathroom. When he came into the kitchen, he sprawled down in one of the kitchen chairs, Rob and Rafe closed in beside him.

  “You’re going to tell us all about it, Dad?”

  “Did you get those guys who shot at Madonna? Where’d the blood come from?”

  “It was pretty hairy, Rafe. We had a car chase on the interstate. Penny must have hit their gas tank because their truck blew up. The bad guys didn’t make it. That was Deputy Penny’s blood on my face. She took a head wound, she’s in the hospital, resting comfortably. She’s going to be all right. The fire department is bringing in the remains of the truck.”

  He’d given the boys enough to satisfy their blood lust, Madonna thought, but not enough to make it too real for them. But still, even those bare facts were terrifying.

  “Did those guys get burned up?” Rafe asked.

  “Yes, Rafe, they did.” Blown up and burned up, Dix thought, can’t get more gone than that.

  Rob said, “Did Penny have to get stitches i
n her head?”

  “Yeah, about ten, all set real pretty by Dr. Oliphant.” Dix shook his head at Rafe, who looked disappointed, then yawned real big.

  Dix said, “It’s going to be light in a couple of hours. Let’s see if we can’t get some sleep, okay?”

  “Rob and I could stay up all night and not be tired, Dad.”

  Somewhere inside Madonna there was laughter and it bubbled out. “Since I’m old, a little sleep sounds good to me.” She let herself be herded upstairs by the sheriff along with his two boys. She thought about lying on her back in Rob’s bed again, staring into the darkness, terrified of who she was and who she might turn out to be. She hoped that in the morning he’d tell her everything that had happened, not just the bare bones of it, that he’d know, most important, who the men were and why they tried to kill her. She hadn’t been about to ask him in front of the boys.

  DIX WOKE UP at ten o’clock Sunday morning, felt a spurt of panic, and drew a deep breath. It was over, and they were all right. He found Rafe and Rob both still asleep together in Rafe’s bed in the boneless way of teenagers, and he smiled. He checked on Madonna in Rob’s room and saw that the bed was not only empty, it was nicely made. The bed hadn’t been made that nicely since Christie—No, he wasn’t going to think about her. Even with the broken window frame, the room wasn’t cold since she’d kept the curtains drawn tightly over the window.

  When he walked into the kitchen twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, she was pulling biscuits out of the oven.

  “Hi, I heard you coming. Coffee’s fresh, on the counter.”

  “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said, eyeing the biscuits.

  “It’s Sunday morning, the only day of the week your arteries are immune to cholesterol. You like scrambled eggs and bacon?”

  “I’ll make breakfast. Come on, sit down and—”

  “Sheriff,” she said patiently, “I feel fine. I’m bored. Let me do something for my keep, all right?”

  She fed him a decadent breakfast, butter and strawberry jam dripping off hot biscuits, and he thought this was exactly what a Sunday morning breakfast should be. He had to admit her biscuits were as good as his blueberry muffins.

  Dix took the last bite of his third biscuit, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, “You remember anything more today?”

  She shook her head, drank down more coffee.

  “I know you’re scared, Madonna. I know it’s tough being in limbo like this, looking at a stranger’s face in the mirror, but I’ll be hearing from IAFIS real soon now and we’ll know who you are. If your real name doesn’t jog your memory, it’ll at least give you an anchor. As a matter of fact, let me check with Cloris right now.” He leaned over and picked up the phone on the counter.

  “Hey, Cloris, I need some—”

  She heard a woman’s excited voice on the other end of the line talking right over him. She saw him grin, sit back, and listen. Finally, he was able to grab the conversation. “Thanks for all that, Cloris. Yes, what you said, that’s close to what happened. I’ll stop by the hospital to see Penny later. I’ll bet her husband, Tommy, was ready to tear down the hospital he was so scared. That’s great news, though. Okay, Cloris, now it’s my turn.”

  He asked her about IAFIS, frowned at her answer. “Okay, but let me know the minute you hear, all right? I’ll be in later.”

  He hung up the phone. “I’m sorry. But there’s no word yet from IAFIS. Still, it is Sunday morning, to be fair about it. Those Rob’s jeans?”

  She was standing at the sink, washing dishes, listening to him tell her he still didn’t know who she was. And then, what did he say? She whipped around and gave him a blinding grin. “Rob kindly loaned them to me. You forget how skinny boys’ butts are. They’re pretty tight.”

  He smiled, stared into his coffee mug.

  “Did you ID the men? Tell me what happened.”

  He shook his head. “No, we didn’t. The truck was a fireball, but we were able to identify it. It was reported stolen from a dealership in Richmond yesterday. The men had no ID on them, and they were badly burned. Identifying them will take longer.”

  “It might not be possible,” she said.

  “That’s true. How do you know that?”

  She shrugged. “It seems logical, particularly if you don’t have much to work with. A Beretta is too big for me. I don’t like to use them.”

  His eyebrow shot up, but he remained silent. She gave a start at what she’d said and began twisting a dishcloth, frowning.

  He threw Brewster a small piece of bacon. “What gun do you prefer?”

  “A SIG. It has a little kick, but it’s really well made and accurate.”

  He nodded. She didn’t seem to find anything odd about describing her gun. Who was she?

  “I’m sorry I endangered your boys.”

  He said mildly, “You were protecting my boys, keeping them safe and distracted. I really appreciate that.”

  “I know I should have been out there with you, not hiding behind a dresser. You’re very kind, Sheriff. In my experience, not a lot of sheriffs are like you.”

  “You know a lot of sheriffs?”

  “Well, there was this guy in North Carolina who—” She broke off, shook her head. “All I know is I wanted to smack him. Isn’t that strange? I saw a glimpse of his face—all smirky, filled with attitude—but now it’s gone.”

  “What were you doing in North Carolina?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

  He rose and walked to her, laid his hand on her shoulder. “Try not to be scared, Madonna. It won’t be long now until you know who you are. As for the rest of it, we’ll find out who those guys were, then we’ll figure all this out, don’t worry.”

  Dix left for the sheriff’s office before the boys were up and didn’t return until the middle of the afternoon. When he walked in the door, he sloughed off his coat and gloves as he walked into the living room. “It’s finally stopped snowing. Maybe this’ll be it. The sun even came out on the way home.”

  Both Rafe and Rob were on him again. He hugged them and waited for them to break away, which they did soon enough, to hurtle more questions at him.

  “We heard about that live wire that could have fried Claus’s leg.”

  “What about that huge burning tire that was coming right at you?”

  “And those guys who tried to shoot Madonna—nothing left but burned-up skeletons!”

  “So someone’s been telling you all about it, huh? I’m hearing some bits of exaggeration there. I told you the important stuff last night. You guys got your homework done?”

  “Ah, Dad,” Rob said. “It’s Sunday. We’re going sledding on Breaker’s Hill again.”

  Rafe said, “Don’t you remember, Dad? We finished with Othello Friday night. Madonna beat the wadding out of us at Scrabble. We learned a new word—lichen.”

  Dix opened his mouth to answer when he heard a car drive up. Now what? He looked at her and called out, “Your name’s not Madonna. It’s Ruth.”

  “What? What did you say? My name’s Ruth? Ruth what? Who am I?”

  There was a knock on the front door. Normally Dix would let the boys answer, but the previous night was still too fresh in his mind. He picked up a barking Brewster and strode to the front entry. “Warnecki,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Your last name’s Warnecki.”

  Dix held up his arm. “Just a moment, boys, stay back, okay?” They responded instantly to the tone of voice but Brewster strained to get away from him. “Calm down, Brewster, calm down.”

  Dix opened the front door to see a big man in a black leather jacket, black slacks, white shirt, black boots, and black leather gloves, standing with a woman beside him, also in black.

  “Sheriff Noble?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “I’m Dillon Savich, and this is my wife, Lacey Sherlock. We understand you have a woman staying with you who’s having trouble remembering who she is. We’d like to see her.
”

  “You related to her?”

  “She works with us—”

  “Dillon! Oh God, is it really you, Dillon? I remember you! Sherlock? Oh, thank God—you guys look wonderful. I’m Ruth Warnecki, and I remember! I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

  Savich quickly stepped forward into the entry hall as Ruth leaped at him and he caught her in his arms. She was laughing, kissing his cheek, letting him hold her close, her feet off the ground. She reared back in his arms, tears in her eyes. “It was so horrible. I didn’t remember who I was and all these strange things just popped out of my mouth. This is Sheriff Dixon Noble, and he’s been taking care of me. And Rob and Rafe, who’ve been taking care of me, too. The sheriff just heard from IAFIS, just this minute told me my name is Ruth Warnecki, and then I saw you both and everything came back again. It was real scary, Dillon. Sherlock, you look so beautiful all in black. You guys match so well. I am so glad to see both of you.” And she kissed Savich’s ear and his left eyebrow and held him like she’d never willingly let him go.

  Dix and the boys stood back, Dix still holding a straining Brewster, who, oddly, wasn’t barking wildly anymore, just seemed anxious to join all the hugging.

  The big man, Dillon Savich, let Ruth down, but still held her against him as he turned to say, “Forgive us, Sheriff, but we were very worried when we heard Ruth hadn’t checked in.”

  “Checked in with whom?” Dix asked.

  Ruth said, “Oh, Luther Hitchcock called you, right, Dillon? He’s a major-league worrier, for which I am profoundly grateful, this time,” Ruth said, grinning like a loon at all of them impartially. “He couldn’t come with me because he had that gallbladder attack and—” She broke off, her face suddenly slack and pale.

  “What, Ruth? What happened?”

  “Dillon, someone’s trying to kill me and it must be because of the treasure in Winkel’s Cave.”

  “Winkel’s Cave?” Dix asked. “What treasure? Who are you, Ruth?”