The FBI Thrillers Collection

by Catherine Coulter

  “But still,” Sherlock said, “he brutally kills two people in Quebec and they let him out in nine years?”

  Savich rolled his shoulders and stretched. “Once his lawyers managed to convince a jury he wasn’t criminally responsible because he was hallucinating and delusional at the time of the crimes, it wasn’t lawful for them to hold him in custody any longer. Something about cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “Unless,” Sherlock said, “they could prove he still posed a risk to the public. He must have learned the rules really well.” She looked at MAX’s screen for a moment and panned the map westward. “So, Dillon, if they deemed Moses was no longer a danger to the public, the Institut Philippe Pinel couldn’t monitor him after he was released?”

  “He was scheduled to see his multidisciplinary support group weekly, but he was legally free to leave. So he hacked off his locator bracelet, skipped out, and came back to the United States two years ago. Then we lose track of him until he picks up Claudia and beats that homeless man to death eight months ago in Birmingham.”

  “You know he must see Claudia as another Tammy.”

  “Probably. Claudia is the same age as Tammy was. And now the two of them have gone on their own killing spree.”

  Savich opened a JPEG file on MAX. “You haven’t seen this photo yet, Sherlock. It was taken three weeks before Moses’s trial.”

  She leaned over to stare at the photo of a rather distinguished-looking, middle-aged man with thick gray hair, a thin ascetic face, and an aquiline nose. His nicely worn tweed suit made him look like a banker. “You’d never know it was Moses Grace,” she marveled out loud. “The description everyone at Denny’s agreed on was that he looked ancient. It hasn’t been much more than a dozen years since this photo was taken.”

  Savich nodded and began to massage her neck and shoulders to ease the tension. “It’d be nice, though, to have a photo from when he got out of the Canadian institute after nine years. We’re still working on that.”

  She studied MAX’s screen again. “He’s aged thirty years, and not well, since this was taken.”

  “He’s very ill, Sherlock, and maybe that’s got a lot to do with how old and worn he looks. He was being treated for pulmonary tuberculosis reactivation at Philippe Pinel. They didn’t finish treating him before he skipped out. When I told Dr. Breaker his symptoms, he said it sounded like the infection had progressed to the cavitary stage—destroyed enough tissue to form big holes in his lungs. Dr. Breaker thinks he’s in the end stages.”

  “I guess more people were exposed to tuberculosis back then. So a disease he probably got in childhood is going to do him in. At least there’ll be some kind of justice for him.”

  “If this satellite link to the communications center holds up, we’ll be helping him get justice sooner than that,” Savich said.

  “I sure hope so, Dillon, or we’ll never get any sleep.”

  “We still have some time before midnight,” Savich said. He pulled her onto his lap, kissed her behind the ear, and smoothed her soft hair with his hand. “Rest a moment. It’s only been two days since you got your arm sliced up.”

  He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “Moses called at exactly midnight the last time. We won’t stay out much later than that. Dane and Ben should be here about now.”

  At midnight sharp Savich’s cell phone rang. He pulled out of his driveway and next to the curb, and let the car idle again. He gave everyone a thumbs-up and answered it.

  “Hey, Moses, how you doin’? Coughing up lots of blood? Nearly dead, aren’t you, old man?”

  Savich had surprised him. There was a long silence. Savich needed him to say something, to identify himself.

  “Now, boy, you know my Claudia wouldn’t let that happen. I’m plenty fit enough to take care of business with you.”

  Before Moses finished his sentence, a flashing yellow dot appeared on MAX’s Washington map, pinpointing his location. He was moving. Sherlock magnified the map with a keystroke, nodded to Savich, and pointed straight ahead. The Volvo accelerated smoothly.

  “Still think you’re going to kill me? Not a chance, old man,” Savich said.

  “We’ll see, won’t we, now that I know where you live.” He cackled, and Savich could hear liquid rolling around in his mouth. “You want to know how I found out your address? I found it at Ms. Lilly’s before I set off that little bomb. Claudia thought since we missed your cute little wife, we ought to get down to business and try again real soon, so I wanted to let you know you can’t hide anymore. It was quite a scene there for a while Friday night, wasn’t it?”

  Sherlock motioned for a left on Clement Street, and Savich turned smoothly. Dane Carver and Ben Raven listened in on their cell phones in the backseat to radio communications from the Hoover building. They were relaying Moses’s location by voice to all the agents converging on him.

  “You caused quite a furor, Moses. Say hello to Claudia for me, will you? That’s Claudia Smollett, isn’t it, from Cleveland, Ohio? She looks pretty in her pictures. Are you sure you’re anxious for me to meet her?”

  They heard Moses’s muffled, angry voice. “Damn, Claudia, he’s made you. What am I going to do with you if you don’t listen to me?”

  The flashing yellow dot disappeared from the map. Moses’s phone was in a dead spot, without GPS signal. Then it flashed on again, bright as before, to the collective relief of everyone in the Volvo.

  Savich said, “I wouldn’t be too upset with her, Moses. She’s not the only one who’s been careless. You’re not really Moses Grace, are you? Moses was your daddy’s name and Grace was your mama’s. Do you think your parents would be pleased you’re doing all this killing using their names? Looks to me like they were real nice people.”

  There was a sharp hitch in Moses’s breath, followed by a violent hacking cough. Finally he managed to say, “Well, well, well. Was that a guess or has our Boy Scout been doing his homework?”

  Sherlock gave Savich a thumbs-up and mouthed, Two minutes.

  Savich said, “Why don’t I talk while you choke on your own blood, Moses? Your name is Malcolm Gilliam, born in Youngstown, Ohio. You flunked out of engineering school, then spent some time in Canada. You’ve really got to work on that illiterate hillbilly shtick, by the way.”

  “You gonna tell me how you found out about me?”

  Savich only laughed at him. “You did a good job keeping that mental hospital stretch in Canada to only nine years. How’d you manage that?”

  He heard blood and phlegm bubbling up in Moses’s throat. He swallowed convulsively but the bubbling sound remained. “Well, you know, boy, I started taking Xenadrine to lose some weight, and damned if I didn’t start hearing voices. Terrible thing, my lawyers said, terrible thing. But do you know those do-gooder morons still kept me in that damned mental ward for nine years? Nine years I had to play a role and do every damned thing I was told to do! I’ll tell you, it took everything in me to play them right, to give them all the answers they wanted on their idiot tests, but now it’s over, and here I am, boy, your worst nightmare.”

  Sherlock whispered to him as Moses spoke, “He’s driving south on Andover. Right now he’s crossing Delancy Street, heading into a residential area. He’s only six blocks from us. Dane, Ben, you guys got that?”

  “Who you got with you, boy? About time we finished this chat, anyway. I know how you like to try and get cute triangulating my cell phones even though I beat you every time.”

  Savich had to keep him on the line a little longer. “It’s Sherlock, Moses, no one to be afraid of. Besides, we’re old friends, seeing as how you’re Tammy’s granddaddy.”

  Moses’s surprise was palpable in the silence. This time Savich could hear a touch of fear in his voice. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “I know all about you, Malcolm. Last time you saw Tammy and Tommy, you gave her a wad of cash, then took off for Canada.”

  There was silence, and finally Moses whispered, “You butchered my p
oor Tommy, and you shot off Tammy’s arm. Only one person left who knew about that—Marva’s little girl, what’s her name? Marilyn. Here I thought she was already dead. Never liked her, whiny little bitch, but Tommy liked to have her around. Well, I’m going to find her, let Claudia have a go at her before I cut her heart out.” The last word caught in a spurting cough.

  Savich looked at Sherlock, who whispered, “He’s only a couple of blocks ahead, driving slow.”

  “You got Claudia with you? She listening to us?”

  “My little cutie’s right here.”

  “Is she holding a box of Kleenex for you to catch the blood you’re spewing? Too bad about your tuberculosis, Moses.”

  “I’m going to blow up your house, boy, you hear me? I’m going to blow you and your little wife to hell.”

  Moses clicked off.

  Savich saw the dark blue van at the same time Dane and Ben did. Moses was driving around Jackson Park, a small square dotted with old maple trees, deserted now in the cold winter night. Only a few lights were on in the houses surrounding the square.

  Dane whispered into his cell, “We’ve got him dead ahead. Everyone come in silent. Wait for my signal.”

  The van suddenly accelerated. They realized they’d been spotted, but it was too late. It was way too late.

  “Gotcha, old man.” Savich punched down on the gas, heading straight for the van. Ben and Dane leaned out, fired multiple rounds at the van’s back tires.

  Both tires exploded.

  Claudia leaned out the passenger window, returned fire.

  The van swerved madly, struck a parked Toyota, then bounced off. Moses jumped the curb and turned the van into the park, skimming between two skinny maple trees. The doors flew open and he and Claudia leaped out, carrying what looked like AR-15 assault rifles. They ran in opposite directions through the small park, taking cover behind trees.

  FBI vehicles started pulling up all around the park, tires screeching, headlights filling the park with glaring light.

  Savich was out of the Volvo, yelling, “Down, everyone down!”

  Automatic gunfire from the park sprayed the area in a wide circle. Savich heard a grunt, yelled without hesitation, “Bring them down!”

  For a minute the gunfire was intense, blasting into the park from all directions. Savich heard Claudia yell, watched the AR-15 spin out of her arms as she fell to the ground. She tried to crawl away, holding her side.

  They were close enough to hear Moses coughing, curses spewing out of his mouth as he fired. There was a brief silence when they heard him slam in another clip, and he fired again.

  Lights came on in the houses around the square. There were no shadows left anywhere. Claudia hissed out a yell and crawled back to her assault rifle. As she grabbed up the weapon, one of the sharpshooters found her in his sights. There was a loud report as her head exploded and she fell back, dead.

  The shooting abruptly stopped because Moses was no longer firing and was no longer in view.

  He wasn’t anywhere.

  Savich began to run to where he’d last seen Moses bent nearly double with the force of his coughing, fanning his assault rifle, firing until another clip was empty.

  He yelled, “Hold your fire!” He was within six feet of where Moses had stood, saw the spent shells but nothing else. He heard a cough and turned sharply to his left, ran toward it. “I can hear you, Moses. In a second I’ll be able to see you, too. You’re not as good as Tammy was.”

  A bullet fired, went wide. Savich saw Moses Grace in the next moment, the assault rifle hanging limply in his hand, bent over, moaning, hacking up blood. A large bloodstain was spreading across his belly. Suddenly a fountain of blood gushed out of his mouth. Savich walked over to him and took the rifle out of his hand. “Everyone can see you now, Moses. It’s over.” Savich yelled over his shoulder, “All clear.”

  The old man heaved up more blood. He was covered with it now, streaming down his chin. Savich watched him weave, then fall hard to the ground on his side. He groaned as he rolled over onto his back. His eyes stared straight up, locked onto Savich’s face.

  His face twisted as he tried to speak, his bloody chest pulsing in frantic breaths. Savich came down on his knees beside him. His blood-drenched mouth opened, and when Savich leaned down close to him, he tried to spit on him. But he no longer had any breath. If he was still aware of where he was, the last thing he saw was twenty FBI agents standing over him.

  Savich felt for a pulse in his neck, then shook his head. For a long moment, he stared down at the mad old wreck of a man.

  Jimmy Maitland dropped to his knees beside Savich. “Dear Lord, I didn’t know there was this much blood in a human being. Thank God it’s over. Step away, Savich, he’s infected.”

  Mr. Maitland rose, Savich coming up slowly to stand beside him. They watched all the men and women highfiving each other. Mr. Maitland shouted, “Okay, boys and girls, let’s get this nightmare wrapped up.”

  They could hear sirens in the distance. Mr. Maitland said to Savich, “The media will be here any minute. I hope to God they never find out how you pulled this off. You know what? Even I don’t know how high up the chain of command this one went.” He clapped Savich on the shoulder.

  Savich grinned at him. “Worked like a charm, didn’t it?”

  Ten minutes later, Jimmy Maitland watched the forensic team carefully bag the bodies of Moses Grace and Claudia Smollett. The police cordoned off the area to keep the homeowners away. Men and women tumbled out of media vans, armed with microphones and cameras. Mr. Maitland watched Savich hug Sherlock and help her into the Volvo. Then he walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. He imagined Savich wincing as he turned the key on that solid car that was a universe away from his Porsche, and smiled. Then he squared his shoulders and turned to deal with the media.

  CHAPTER 36

  MAESTRO, VIRGINIA

  SUNDAY NOON

  THE BOYS HAD wolfed down their first hamburger and baked potato before they stopped talking about the lineup at the Richmond Police Department. It wasn’t until they were building their second hamburgers that Rob started a new topic. “The ice was great on the pond this morning, Dad. We all raced and I won, easy.”

  “You only beat me once, Rob, and that’s because you cheated. And the other kids were all twelve years old.”

  “What about Pete? He’s a senior, older than me.”

  “He’s a spaz, can’t figure out which foot is which.”

  Ruth and Dix sat back, half listening, watching the boys eat and argue, mostly both at the same time.

  Dix said, “The amazing thing is I can remember when I ate just like that with my brothers.”

  She nodded, but she was thinking, and Dix saw it. “We did a lot of good work this morning, Ruth. Give your brain a rest for a while.”

  “I can’t.”

  Rob said, “Hey, Ruth, do you skate? You think you can beat my little brother? If you do, you can race against me.”

  “And the winner of that race will go against me, right?” Dix asked.

  “Okay, Dad, with maybe a handicap.”

  “And maybe a blindfold,” Rafe said.

  “You’re that good, are you?” Ruth asked him.

  “Beat my boys and see.”

  Ruth grinned as she passed the mustard for the new round of burgers.

  Dix noticed that Rob didn’t dig into his hamburger right away, and that was unusual. “What’s up, Rob?”

  Rob carefully laid his fork down on his plate. “I don’t know, but something’s wrong, Dad, with you. I think you’re all wound up. You and Ruth both.”

  “I suppose that’s the truth,” Dix said. He imagined he knew where this was going, and he didn’t want to stop it. He said nothing, only nodded.

  “Rafe and I were talking.” Here Rob shot a warning look at his brother.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, maybe—Nothing, Dad. We can talk about it later.” Rob pushed his chair back, grabbed his hambu
rger, and shot up. “We’re going to go sledding now.” He waved his hamburger. “I need my strength. Thanks for lunch.”

  “Wait for me, Rob!”

  “Be careful,” Ruth called after them.

  Dix opened his mouth to demand to hear more, but he didn’t. They heard things, and they must be imagining even worse things. Rob was right, both he and Ruth were wound up. A discussion with the boys could wait until they were all ready for it, and he wouldn’t be ready for it until everything was resolved.

  “They must blame me,” Ruth said, surprising him. “It’s easy to think that if I hadn’t come here, none of this would have happened.”

  “Well, if they think that, they’re wrong and they’ll come to realize it. They’re fair and they’re bright. The best thing we can do for them is to put an end to all this as soon as we can. Then we’ll help them deal with it, Ruth. It’ll just take some time.”

  His cell phone rang.

  “Sheriff Noble.”

  Ruth watched Dix’s face as he listened. When he punched off, he said, “That was Cesar Morales. He doesn’t have a name for us.”

  “That sure makes me want to pop out with a profanity. All right, Dix. Cut the tease. Why did he call?”

  “It turns out Dempsey’s girlfriend has been spending lots of cash. They pinned her with it and she finally told the detective that Tommy gave her nine thousand dollars in cash to keep safe until he and Jackie got back from a job.”

  Ruth’s heart speeded up. “Did she give up anything that would help us find out who gave Dempsey the money?”

  “As I said, Cesar didn’t have a name. But Tommy told his girlfriend it was for a job he was doing for a woman.” He paused, and grinned. “What he said, exactly, was that the job was for a crazy bitch at the music school in Maestro.”

  CHAPTER 37

  MAESTRO

  SUNDAY EVENING

  DIX PULLED INTO Gordon’s driveway at six o’clock that evening. He turned to Ruth as he unfastened his seat belt. “You armed?”