The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  Chappy said, “Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular PR guy for Maestro, and here you are, a city boy.”

  Dix rolled his eyes. “Not anymore, Chappy. I’ll tell you, when I visited my family in New York City last year, it seemed like I’d landed on a different planet.”

  Ruth bent over to retie her boot laces. “How much farther, Mr. Holcombe?”

  “Call me Chappy, Special Agent.”

  Ruth laughed. “I guess you’d best call me Ruth.”

  “I’ll try, Ruth. But you know, that sounds like you stepped out of the Old Testament or should be home, spinning cloth in front of a fire.” Chappy stopped a moment, scanned. “Over there, I think, another thirty or so yards,” he said, pointing. “You can see Lone Tree Hill—that single oak tree standing on top of that rise? It’s been standing sentinel up there longer than I’ve had feet on the ground. The snow’s really changed how everything looks—the snow and all the years.”

  They trudged on toward that single oak tree. Nearly goose-stepping through the snow with the bright sun overhead, they weren’t cold, but their feet were wet through. “Rob’s got lots of wool socks he can lend us, if you need any,” Ruth said to Sherlock. “Dix can see to Dillon.”

  Chappy held up his hand, stopped. They were standing some ten feet from the edge of a gully that fell at least twenty feet, forming a bowl of sorts some thirty feet across. The sides of the gully were covered with scraggly trees and blackberry bushes, all weighed down with snow. Lone Tree Hill stood to their left, upslope, the oak tree silhouetted against a cobalt sky, its branches laden with snow.

  Ruth said, “It looks sort of like a Christmas tree. I’ll bet it’s a favorite for photographers.”

  “Yeah, but mostly from a distance. Few people come up here,” Chappy said, wiping snow off his arms. “My wife loved to paint that tree, in every season. A lot of people can see it from all around here.” Chappy pointed to the far side of the gully. “Over there, by that bent old pine tree, that’s where the cave opening is. That old tree looked near death when I was a boy. It still looks like it’s about to fall over.”

  Once they’d made it across the gully and climbed up some six feet, Chappy stopped. “The opening must be right there, beneath all that brush.”

  The brush came away easily, too easily. Savich stepped back when Dix began to shovel away the snow that had fallen through the brush. When he hit solid rock, he looked over his shoulder at Chappy. “You’re sure, Chappy? There doesn’t seem to be an opening here. Should I try to the left or the right?”

  Chappy shook his head. “Nope, right there, Dix, by the twisted old bush. I’m not totally senile yet.”

  “Wait a minute,” Savich said. He squatted down and wiped away the remaining dirt and snow with his gloved hand. “Chappy’s right. This is the spot all right. That brush came away awfully easy, didn’t it, Dix? It looks like somebody’s packed a bunch of rocks in here. To hide the entrance.”

  “They did a nice job of it,” Sherlock said. “It’s invisible until you brush it clean and look real close. This could be where you got out, Ruth. It looks like somebody’s trying to cover up that cave from both ends.”

  “Dix, you think you can pry those rocks out of the way with your shovel?” Ruth asked.

  “Let’s give it a shot,” Dix said. He wedged the shovel beneath the lowest rocks and shoved it down into the earth. It took a lot of muscle, but after five minutes, Sherlock had pulled out the last stone. They caught their breath, staring at a cave opening in the side of the hill, maybe four feet high, three feet wide. They looked into blackness.

  “Just a moment, Dix,” Chappy said, elbowing his way forward. “Let me check this out first.” Chappy leaned down into the opening. “Yep, I remember now. There’s the easy slope downward, to the right. You have to press hard to the right because two feet to the left there’s a nearly sheer wall that plunges straight down. When I was a teenage boy with more luck than brains, I tried to rappel down. Maybe twenty feet later I freaked out because out of nowhere bats were swarming all around me, heading up to the cave entrance.

  “I remember that right-hand passage led to one big chamber. I don’t remember any connections to Winkel’s Cave, but I suppose there may be some small ones.

  “I’ll go first. You follow close behind me, single file. I remember it widens out pretty fast.”

  Dix laid his hand on his father-in-law’s shoulder. “Ruth might have been exposed to gas in there, Chappy. There could be residue. I don’t want you swooning away at my feet. Think of your reputation. I’d prefer it if you’d let me go in first. I’ll be careful, I’ll keep pressed to the right.”

  “I hate it when a snot-nosed kid plays sheriff.”

  Dix laughed. “I’m paid to push you out, old man, if it means keeping you safe.” Dix lifted his flashlight to shine it down into the opening. It sloped down but the ceiling was more or less level, so it was well over six feet high very quickly. And it looked narrow, but not so much that he couldn’t get through. He eased through the opening, climbed down five steps to the right, and called back, “It’s seems okay down here so far.”

  They followed him in, Savich bringing up the rear. Dix stopped when the space widened enough for them to all stand together. They shone their head lamps around them in the small space, and realized they’d been walking along a limestone ledge.

  “Well, that’ll make your blood pump a bit,” Ruth said. She walked over to the edge and panned her head lamp upward. She saw glistening stalactites spearing down from a ceiling that was another twenty feet above them. She couldn’t see the bottom. “The limestone is stained. Look, it’s been gouged out in places. I wonder why.”

  “It smells nice and fresh in here,” Savich said, “which means all that rock and dirt wasn’t piled in that opening for very long, not long enough for the air to go stale. Since someone went to all the trouble of hiding the entrance, this must be the place we’re looking for.”

  They made their way slowly and carefully down the ledge. Ruth asked Chappy, “The chamber this passage opens into, do you remember how big it is?”

  “Good-sized, maybe forty feet across, maybe five, ten feet more the long way. But there’s this weirdly shaped limestone niche inset deeply into the back wall that makes it seem even bigger.”

  “I don’t suppose you found anything in that niche?”

  Chappy gave her a sharp look. “I remember as a kid thinking there should be Indian relics set in there, but I didn’t find any.” He shook Dix’s sleeve. “Okay, you’re going to twist more to the right, I think, and then this passage drops off again—pretty steep so be careful—and dumps you right out into the big chamber.”

  When they’d all stepped down into the chamber after Dix, Chappy asked, “Was this the chamber you were in, Ruth?”

  “I don’t know yet, Chappy. I don’t remember much.”

  “Let’s head in, see if we can find out,” Savich said.

  Dix stepped farther into the cavern, his Coleman lantern casting misshapen shadows on the walls ahead of them.

  CHAPTER 13

  IT WAS LIKE a large vault, the ceiling soaring upward, with myriad groups of stalactites of incredible shapes hanging like chandeliers above their heads. But many of those within reach weren’t whole, more like jagged, broken spears, scattered chunks tossed about on the cavern floor. “What a shame,” Ruth said. “Men did this.”

  It was odd, but when she turned her head lamp away from the formations, reflecting light at her, the chamber seemed dark, too dark, and quiet, her voice alien in the dead air. She realized she was afraid.

  “You okay, Ruth?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said a little too brightly to Sherlock. “Look at that weird formation. It looks like a casket.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out,” Chappy said. “Makes me feel all warm inside. Beautiful, though, isn’t it? Too bad some people can’t leave beautiful things alone.”

  It was odd, Ruth thought, but she had to struggle with herself t
o walk forward, afraid to find out what had happened to her here, if this was indeed the chamber. But of course it was since someone had gone to all the trouble of sealing up the entrance.

  “It’s longer than you thought, Chappy,” Dix said as he walked farther into the cavern, his head lamp lighting up the shadowy walls near him. “Ruth, you think the arch might be over to your right? You want to take a look?”

  No, she didn’t even want to move. She felt like she was buried alive and the air was running out and she would suffocate. She wanted to run back out of this airless black chamber with its secrets, wanted to run along that long ledge until she could climb back out into the daylight. She schooled herself not to breathe too hard. She stood very quietly, surrounded by the weaving splashes of light from all the head lamps, and made herself draw in air, slowly, and slower still. She felt a hitch in her throat and she shivered. It was cold in there, colder than it should be.

  She drew in another deep breath. Good, she could do that. She was being ridiculous. She made herself turn and walk along the right-hand wall of the cavern. The arch would be there, and she would know once and for all if this was the place where—What? There was still a black hole in her brain, as black as the hole in which she stood. She focused her head lamp on the wall but couldn’t see any opening. She remembered taking steps before, too many steps that didn’t lead anywhere. Circles, she’d probably taken steps in circles, gone round and round, faster and faster. She shook her head again. She remembered the steps ending, but how was that possible?

  She stumbled, went down on her hands and knees, and felt a jab of pain in her palm. She’d hit a sharp piece of fallen limestone. She looked at her hand, shook it. It wasn’t bad, she hadn’t cut through her glove. Other than the scattered limestone, the floor was surprisingly smooth. There was something, a small round object, on the floor at the edge of her head lamp light. She crawled over it to get a better look.

  It was her compass.

  A vivid memory seared through her. Her compass. She’d thrown it away in a moment of what? Anger? Frustration? She’d thrown it away because it had lied to her, given her directions that were impossible. She’d thrown it away because she was afraid.

  She called out in a voice that didn’t sound like hers, “I found my compass. I remember I dropped it here. This is the chamber all right.”

  They surrounded her in a moment. Dix took her hand and pulled her up. He took the compass from her, laid it flat on his palm, studied it. “It still seems to be working.”

  She swallowed. “When I was in here, it was all squirrelly.” She was shaking her head. “No, I didn’t drop it, I threw it as far away from me as I could.”

  Dix slipped the compass into his jacket pocket. He heard her harsh breathing, stepped over to her, and rubbed his hands over her arms. “Listen to me, it’s okay. Whatever happened in this chamber, you survived it. It won’t happen again, all right?”

  She wanted to throw herself against him, let him protect her from the monster in this place, just for a while, but she knew she shouldn’t. She held herself back. He sensed she was on the edge and pulled her against him for a moment. He said, “Savich, maybe you and Sherlock should look for the arch.”

  Chappy stood beside them, staring at Ruth. “What arch? I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s going on here?”

  “Later, Chappy,” Dix said.

  “Here it is!”

  Dix said, “Shall we all go see the arch?”

  Ruth nodded her head against his shoulder. “Yes, okay. I’ll be all right. Stupid, really, falling apart like this.”

  “Even a hard-ass can take a beating now and then,” Dix said.

  They watched as Savich and Sherlock crawled carefully through the archway. There were jagged pieces of limestone around it. After a moment, Savich called out, “Not six feet up the passage is where they set the charge for the blast. It’s a mess in here.”

  Sherlock said, “There really is only one way out again.”

  Ruth said suddenly, “I smell jasmine. It’s really faint, but it’s there. I remember now I smelled the same thing on Friday.”

  “Fresh air I can understand,” Savich said, “but jasmine? Like perfume?”

  Ruth nodded. “But that doesn’t make any sense, does it? I wasn’t wearing any perfume. What could it be?”

  Chappy said, “Yeah, I caught a vague whiff of something, too. I didn’t know it was jasmine, just something sort of sweet.”

  Ruth said, “Chappy, could you show me the niche?”

  He led her over to the far wall of the chamber as Savich and Sherlock began to walk the perimeter.

  “Thanks, Chappy. Can I have a minute?”

  Ruth ran her flashlight carefully along the walls of the irregular, deeply indented space cut in the limestone by water over thousands of years. It looked like it hadn’t been disturbed for a millennium. She knew the gold bars had been left there. Her map read Beneath the niche, but there was nothing there now. Who had found them, and how long ago? She wanted to cry. She’d been so excited, so hopeful, and it was all for nothing. “It’s empty all right, Chappy, you were right.”

  She turned away and walked along the back wall of the cavern, away from the others. She smelled jasmine again, stronger now, and there was something else she smelled in the air, something nasty, unwholesome. She kept walking, leaning over when the cavern ceiling dipped a bit.

  The smells intensified.

  She heard a noise, a sort of whispering sound, maybe the soft flap of a bat’s wings. Maybe bats had flown at her when she was there before, maybe they knocked her down and she hit her head. Her eyes flew up and she panned the ceiling with her head lamp. She saw nothing, only the gleam of lacy limestone.

  She took another step forward and stumbled over something. She went to her knees, threw out her hands to save herself. Her fingers fell on something oddly pulpy and cold.

  In the deepest part of her, she knew what she’d touched. She screamed, fell back, her head lamp scattering light all around her.

  She heard their voices calling out to her, heard them running toward her. She forced her head lamp down. She stared into the greenish bloated face of a young woman.

  “Ruth, what is it? What did you find?”

  She looked up at Dix. “She’s dead, Dix. She’s the one wearing the jasmine perfume. And that sickening smell, it’s coming off her.”

  Dix dropped to his knees beside her. “Savich, Sherlock, I need more light here. Chappy, you stay back, you hear me? Don’t you move an inch this way.”

  “I know her,” Dix said as he studied her face. “She’s a student at Stanislaus. I don’t know her name but I’ve seen her around town from time to time.” He touched his fingertips to her neck, her cheeks, and finally, her hands, folded neatly across her chest. She needed only a lily, he thought. She hadn’t wandered in here by accident, alone, that was for sure. Rigor had long passed. “She hasn’t been dead all that long. I’d say maybe three, four days.”

  Ruth said clearly, “I smelled her perfume when I came into the cave on Friday.”

  Dix continued matter-of-factly, “The time seems about right. Decomposition would slow in here since it’s cool and dry. You add the really cold weather we’ve been having, and it would slow things even more, but decomposition has started. See that small discolored circle on her chest? It looks like she’s been stabbed. I don’t see a knife, do you, guys?”

  “The smell,” Ruth said. “Not the jasmine, that other smell, it’s pretty foul.”

  “Yes, it is,” Dix said. “There’s something medicinal to it.”

  “No knife,” Savich said, “but I suppose the murderer could have left it in here, tucked away somewhere. The forensic team will have a huge job ahead of them looking through this whole chamber.”

  Ruth looked down at the young woman’s face, bathed in the light of all their head lamps. “She’s been posed. Look how her arms are crossed over her chest, her legs straightened out, her dress smoothe
d down.”

  Dix slowly stood, stretched. “Must be some crazy loon here, guys. He kills her, poses her, entombs her here for all practical purposes. He couldn’t have known there was another exit from this chamber. At least he didn’t know until he found Ruth’s arch. It could be out of Poe.”

  Sherlock was checking the young woman’s pockets, gently running her hands under the body. “I don’t see a purse. Two pockets, but they’re empty. No ID.”

  Ruth looked toward the arched opening on the far side of the chamber. “Do you think she was killed in here?”

  “I don’t know,” Dix said. “I don’t want to guess, either. I’m grateful you didn’t stumble over her when you were in here alone.”

  She was shivering, so cold her body ached. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She couldn’t look away from that poor dead young woman. “I might have stumbled over her. It might have been what shoved me over the edge. I still don’t remember.”

  Dix handed her the compass. “Hold it a moment, Ruth.”

  She didn’t want to, but she took it and held it in her open palm. She heard Dillon’s voice. “That’s it, Ruth. Just hold it. You’ve had it for a long time. You’ve used it often. Do you remember what you were doing the last time you held it?”

  She dropped the compass. “I was—terrified. Something was coming toward me, a slithering sound pulling itself across the cave floor. I ran, I had to get away from it. And I was screaming.”

  Savich clutched her hand tightly. “That’s good, Ruth, that’s really good for now.” He nodded to Sherlock, who pulled Ruth against her. He watched Dix pick up the compass and slip it back into his jacket pocket.

  Sherlock said, “Let’s head back outside. We need to get out of here to call for help.”

  Savich said, “Dix, did you say your uncle-in-law is the director of Stanislaus, Dr. Gordon Holcombe?”

  “Yes. If we can’t ID her real quick, he’ll be able to help us.”

  AT THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon, the body of Erin Bushnell, age twenty-two, a very talented violinist from Sioux City, Iowa, was zipped into a body bag in the back of the Loudoun County medical examiner’s van and on its way to the morgue in the basement of the Loudoun County hospital. As they watched the white van make its way slowly through the now-slushy snow Dix said, “The ME, Burt Himple, he’s good, Savich. I think he had some training at Quantico. After meeting you and Sherlock, he’ll be real careful not to screw up anything.”