Twice Dead

by Catherine Coulter

  “No, you can’t have my address book.”

  “Fine. I’ll call information.” Adam walked toward the phone. “We’ve got to know exactly what’s going on here.”

  Becca didn’t say another word. She ran out of the living room, grabbed her purse from the table in the entryway, and made for the front door.

  “Becca! Come back here!”

  She heard Adam yelling but didn’t pay any attention. She heard her father’s voice, then Special Agent Cobb’s voice. She didn’t slow. She was out on the narrow front porch before Adam reached the entryway.

  She heard all of them shouting at her, running after her, but she knew she had to get away. No one else was going to die. Not Sam. Not her father. She had to stop it. She didn’t know how she was going to do it yet, but she would think of something. She should have thought of something before—maybe even been a bit on the subtle side. Yes, you fool, you should have calmly left the living room, pretending to go upstairs or go to the bathroom, whatever. But no, she’d lost it—here she was running away with people chasing her, FBI agents everywhere. But that didn’t matter, either. She had no choice. If she could prevent it, no one else was going to die. She ran.

  There were no sidewalks in this very nice neighborhood, just big lawns, thick curbs, and the road. She hit the road. She was fast, always had been since she’d been on the track team in high school. She put her head down, turned off all the voices, and ran. She felt the breath pumping in and out of her lungs, felt herself filling with energy, with power, expanding, moving faster, faster. Her feet in Nikes were unbeatable.

  She ran right into Sherlock. Both women went down.

  Becca was on her feet in an instant. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Stop her!”

  Sherlock grabbed her ankle and pulled. Becca went down on the edge of a lawn, hitting her hip on the curb. A shaft of sharp pain went through her, but she ignored it. She was ready to fight, ready to do whatever she had to, but Sherlock had somehow managed to straddle her, how she didn’t know, but she’d been fast, too fast, and now she was holding her arms down. How could she be so strong? How did she get her in this position so quickly? Sherlock was leaning over her, her curly red hair bouncing against Becca’s face. “What’s going on here, Becca?”

  “Get off me, Sherlock. Please, you’ve got to let me go. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You can’t hurt me, so don’t even try. Tell me what’s happened.”

  Becca started struggling, but then it didn’t matter, and she stilled because Adam was there, not even panting hard, standing over them, staring down at her, his hands on his hips. “Thanks for bringing her down, Sherlock. That wasn’t very smart, Becca.”

  Sherlock didn’t like this one bit. She looked at all the men running to the scene, even the two dark-suited FBI guys who’d been parked discreetly down the street. “What’s going on, Adam? Oh yeah, given that I could have hurt Becca dragging her down, I’d really better like the answer.” She pulled herself off Becca and slowly got to her feet. She held out her hand.

  Becca looked at that white hand that was surely too strong, but she didn’t move. She rolled over away from them, grabbed her purse, and was off again. A sharp pain went through her hip but she ignored it.

  She got at least ten feet before two arms went around her waist and she was picked up, twirled around, and thrown over a man’s shoulder. She hit her chin against his back. “Hold still,” he said, and his voice was calm and quiet. Too calm, too quiet.

  Sherlock was one thing. Having a big guy haul her over his shoulder was another. It was humiliating. She jerked and pulled and kicked. “All right,” he said, and pulled her down. He brought her back up against him, wrapped his arms around her, and held on tight. No matter what she did, she couldn’t get free. He’d pinned her arms to her sides but good.

  Three hours, she thought. Time was running out. “What time is it?”

  “I’ll tell you after you promise not to run away again.”

  She leaned down and bit his hand, hard. He didn’t make a single sound, jerked her around to face him and said, “I’m sorry, Becca,” and lightly tapped his fist against her jaw. It was the strangest feeling. It didn’t really hurt, but she saw a whole skyful of white lights, popping all over her brain, then it was as if someone switched off the lights. Nothing. She slumped against him.

  “She’s a fighter,” he said to Sherlock, who was standing beside him as he picked Becca up in his arms. He looked at the back of his hand. At least he wasn’t bleeding, but he could see the row of even teeth marks. That had been close, too close. But now he had her. She was too thin, he thought, as he carried her back. She didn’t weigh enough; well, he’d see to that. He’d force food down her gullet if he had to. He frowned as he realized she was a fast runner, very fast. He wasn’t certain if he could have caught her if Sherlock hadn’t been there. He didn’t like that thought, not one bit. He saw Thomas striding toward him, looking frantic.

  “What’s going on here, Adam?” Suddenly Sherlock was right in his face, and she wasn’t going to move. He couldn’t very well clip her on the chin. She’d probably flatten him. Since she was married to Savich, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had a black belt, maybe two.

  He said, “Krimakov kidnapped Sam McBride. Come on back to the house and we’ll let everyone know what’s happening. She promised McBride she wouldn’t tell anyone. However, when Agent Cobb gave her some Valium to relax her so he could hypnotize her, she inadvertently spilled the beans. She did go under. Then it all came out.”

  “This is insane,” said Sherlock. “That maniac kidnapped Sam? Let me get ahold of Savich. I can’t believe this. Is that guy everywhere?” She stepped away and pulled the cell phone out of her pocket.

  The agents who’d been watching the house were now standing next to Thomas and agents Hawley and Cobb.

  They parted from his path and Adam carried Becca back into the house, not saying another word. He hoped no neighbors in this lovely neighborhood had seen this bizarre action and called the cops.

  “I hope you didn’t hurt her,” Thomas said, right on his heels.

  “She nearly bit my hand off,” Adam said.

  “Yeah, but you brought her down.”

  “No, that was Sherlock. I clamped my arms around her.”

  “You weren’t gentle enough.”

  “Thomas, what did you want me to do, lie down and let her stomp on me before she ran another four-minute mile?”

  “Yeah, Adam,” Agent Hawley said. “She got you good, but it’s not bleeding. Good straight teeth. Put her down on the couch.”

  Thomas covered her with an afghan Allison had given him some seven years before. He didn’t realize it was quite hot, since they’d left the front door wide open and all the cold air had seeped out.

  “I was careful,” Adam said, but he was sitting beside her, lightly touching her jaw where he’d hit her. “She shouldn’t even bruise. Listen, Thomas, she was going to run and run until we brought her down. She would have fought me until I might have hurt her by accident. She wasn’t thinking.”

  “Yeah, I guess I understand.” Thomas raised his eyes to Hawley and Cobb. “We’re in deep trouble now.”

  Becca moaned and opened her eyes. She lurched up only to have two hands push her back down, and Adam’s voice close to her face saying, “If you try anything again, I’m going to lock you in your room. If you bite me again, I’ll lock you in your closet and feed you moldy bread and water.”

  Her hair was hanging in her face, her jaw felt swollen and sore, and she was so mad she wanted to spit. More than that, she was desperate. She was tired of failing. All she’d done since Krimakov had come into her life was fail. She raised her head and looked him squarely in the eye. “That wasn’t funny.”

  “No, it wasn’t. What I want to do is help you if you’ll let me.”

  The three hours were up, she knew it. She had to do something. She had to do something right this minute. But it
didn’t matter. It was too late. All of them knew now. She said, trying to control her misery, her deadening fear, “I’ve got to call Tyler. I promised to call him in three hours. If I don’t, I don’t know what he’ll do, probably go to the media. Don’t you understand? Krimakov has Sam. He wants me to come to Riptide, doesn’t want me to tell you or Dad. Tyler is desperate.”

  Adam came down on his knees in front of her. “Becca, look at me.”

  “I was looking at you. You’re trying to lighten things up. You can’t. You can’t help me. Only I can do something here. I don’t want to look at you. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to call Tyler. You can’t help.”

  “All right.” He rose and offered her his hand. A big hand, she thought, and she wished she could bite it again, then flip him over the back of the sofa.

  “You all right, sweetheart?” Thomas said, handing her a cup of tea.

  Sweetheart? He’d called her sweetheart and it seemed to have come out naturally, not a fake endearment. It nearly made her cry. No one had ever called her sweetheart before. Her mom had always called her honey, or when she was a little girl she’d been Muffin.

  She didn’t let it touch her. She couldn’t, not now at any rate. “I’ve got to call Tyler, tell him I’m coming right away to Riptide and that none of you are coming with me. Do you understand? Sam dies if anyone comes with me. No, Adam, shut up. I will not let that little boy die.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” Thomas said slowly. “He wants you, that’s true, but he wants me more. Why doesn’t he want both of us to come to Riptide? The package deal he always wanted? What’s he up to now?”

  Becca said, “I don’t know. I agree it doesn’t make any sense at all, but that’s what he wrote in his note to Tyler. He told Tyler how to contact me, and then when I did call, Tyler was to tell me to come to Riptide alone. Not to tell either of you or Sam would die.”

  “Note?” Sherlock said. “What note?”

  “The kidnapping note,” Becca said. “Krimakov left it on Sam’s bed after he took him. Told him exactly what to do, told him if I didn’t come, he’d kill Sam, just like Linda Cartwright.”

  “It might not even matter now,” Sherlock said, “but if we can get the note, I’ll give it to our handwriting experts. Also, they can compare the handwriting to other documents that you have, Thomas, with Krimakov’s handwriting on them.”

  Thomas said, “There are some samples of his handwriting, yes, but what good would it do to analyze it? You’re right, it probably doesn’t even matter now. We’re coming down to the endgame here.” Thomas sighed and streaked his fingers through his hair. “I wish I knew what kind of gambit Krimakov was playing.”

  Sherlock said, “I do, too, but since we don’t, we have to keep using the tools we’ve got. If he gives us the time, if he continues with his delaying tactics, and more distractions, I can get the two samples of his handwriting compared. Maybe they could tell us how far over the edge he’s gone, or maybe prove that all he’s done is cold manipulation and butchery, and he’s as sane as you and I. Our people are good, trust me. There’s no reason not to do it.”

  “I’ve got to talk to Tyler,” Becca said, rising, throwing off the afghan. “Reassure him. Tell him what’s going on here.”

  Sherlock said, “At the very least, if there’s still time, the analysis and comparison will let us know what we’re up against. Trust me on this. Get that note from Tyler, Becca.”

  “Yes, she will,” Thomas said. “Go make your call, Becca.”

  Becca nodded and walked to the phone, pulling the small address book out of her purse as she walked. She looked up Tyler McBride’s number. She dialed.

  After three rings, Tyler answered, his voice frantic. “Becca? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Tyler.”

  “Thank God. Where are you? What are you doing? What’s happening?”

  “Okay, Tyler, listen to me. Here’s the plan. It’s the only way to handle this, so don’t yell at me. We’re all coming up to Riptide, but not together. No, be quiet and listen. We’re all going to trickle in. He’ll never know there’s anyone else but me in Riptide. I’ll come directly to your house, we’ll speak, he’ll see me, then I’ll go to Jacob Marley’s house. He’ll come for me there. You know it. I know it.” She drew a deep breath. “He has no reason to kill Sam. He’ll have me, so he can keep his word and release him.”

  “The others will be hiding in Jacob Marley’s house?”

  “No, but they’ll be close by. It will work, Tyler.”

  She was aware that all of them were staring at her, but she just shook her head at them. It was the only way to go, and all of them knew it. There’d been no reason to flail about and discuss any number of options into the ground. She had to go and she knew no one would let her go alone. Fine. They had a chance now. “Oh yes, Tyler, I need you to give me Krimakov’s note. Sherlock wants it. Now, just go about your business. Don’t say a word to anyone. We’ll be there in under four hours.”

  Slowly, she lowered the phone into its cradle. She looked up. “Sam’s not going to die.”

  “No,” Adam said, walking to her, “no, he won’t.” Then he couldn’t stand it. He pulled her against him and held her there, his hand tight across her back, his other hand fisted in her hair. He felt her heart beating against his chest, hard, fast strokes. He brought her closer. He looked up to see Thomas staring at him, and slowly, he loosened his fingers in her hair, smoothing it down, but he didn’t want to let her go.

  Thomas said, “Agent Hawley and Agent Cobb, this kidnapping will stay amongst us. It doesn’t go to anyone else in the FBI. All right?”

  “No problem,” said Tellie Hawley. “We’re in this thing to the end. That bastard butchered four of my people. I want him as much as you do. If Savich and Sherlock aren’t saying anything to the higher-ups, why should we?”

  “Let’s get rolling,” Sherlock said once Thomas had given her several papers with Krimakov’s handwriting. “We’ll meet at Reagan in an hour?”

  “No,” Thomas said. “We’ll go over to Andrews Air Force Base. I’ll have a plane ready for us.”

  They were nearly out the door when Thomas’s private phone rang. He looked undecided, then said, “Hold on. It’s got to be important if it’s on that phone.”

  Slowly, because she didn’t really want to, Becca forced herself to pull away from Adam. “I’m all right,” she said.

  “I’m not,” he said, and smiled at her. “We’ll get through this.”

  They all followed Thomas back to his study, watched him pick up the phone on the edge of the mahogany desk.

  “Yes? ... Hello, Gaylan.”

  It was Gaylan Woodhouse, the CIA director. They all watched Thomas’s face stiffen, then slowly turn pale and set. “Oh no,” he said, his voice bleak. “You’re absolutely certain of all this?”

  They watched him lower the phone and stare over at them. He looked shaken, dazed. “This is too much,” he said. “Just too much.”

  “What happened?” Adam was at Thomas’s side in but a moment.

  Thomas shook his head, his eyes dazed. There was a fine tremor in his hands. “You’re not going to believe this. CIA Agent Elizabeth Pirounakis was blown up when she went into Vasili Krimakov’s apartment in Iráklion. Krimakov must have worked there, left notes there, evidence of his plans.

  “The whole building blew up. It’s now rubble. Agent Pirounakis is dead, the two other Greek agents with her dead as well. Gaylan isn’t certain yet, but given the time of the explosion, thankfully very few people were in the apartment building.”

  “He did this before he left Crete,” Agent Hawley said. “It’s not something he’s just done.”

  Adam said, “At least now there has to be an inquiry about the guy they buried. Surely now they can’t hang on to the fiction that the man in the car accident was Vasili Krimakov?”

  Thomas looked at Adam. “It doesn’t much matter now. There’s hell to pay over there, but that doesn’t help us.”r />
  “Time,” Adam said. “It’s what he hasn’t given us.”

  Thomas nodded, then paused another moment and looked over at his daughter. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  She gave him a smile filled with rage and said, “Yes. Lock and load.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  It was hot that day in Maine, even by the water. Lobster boats bobbed up and down in the inlets, fishermen, their hats pushed back on their heads, lay in the shade of the awnings on their boats, if they were lucky enough to have awnings.

  The white spires of the Riptide churches shone beneath the bright afternoon sun. There wasn’t much movement anywhere. It was too hot. The tourists weren’t wandering around taking photos of the quaint Maine town, they were holed up in air-conditioned pubs.

  The hot weather didn’t bother the birds. Osprey dove for fish off the spruce-covered points. Gulls squawked and whirled over the lobster boats. The smell of dead fish left too long in the heat sent out odors that meant you had to take shallow breaths to survive. Cumulus clouds in fantastic shapes dotted the steel blue sky. There was no breeze at all. Still, hot air blanketed the land.

  Becca was so scared that all the beauty of the land and ocean, the sound of the birds, the incredible blue of the sky—none of it penetrated her brain. She felt frozen in the near hundred-degree heat.

  She’d driven herself in a rented white Toyota from a private airfield near Camden. It had taken her nearly an hour to negotiate the tourist traffic on Highway 1 south to Riptide, below Rockland. Her hands were clammy, her heart slowly thudding in her chest. She tried to think of all that could go wrong, but her mind wouldn’t slip into gear.

  When a mosquito bit her as she was pumping gas, she was pleased she felt it. She wasn’t even aware of being pissed off that the rental agency hadn’t filled her car before renting it to her.

  When she arrived in Riptide at three o’clock in the afternoon, she drove directly to Tyler’s house on Gum Shoe Lane. He was standing in the yard, waiting for her. He was quite alone.

  Tyler held her very close, as if she were a lifeline, and so she stood there, his arms locked tightly around her. Finally, she eased back and looked up at him. “Any word at all?”