Point Blank f-10

by Catherine Coulter

  Rafe and Rob came into the kitchen with Sean running between them, Graciella behind them, grinning like a proud parent. Rob said, “Agent Savich, we heard you talking about this Marilyn Warluski person, how she owns a barn near the Plum River and you’re looking for her. We asked Graciella how to spell it, then we googled her on Graciella’s laptop. There’s a Marilyn Warluski who lives in Summerset, Maryland, at Thirty-eight Baylor Street. We called up a map of Summerset, and it’s about ten miles north of the Plum River. We could have dialed her number, but Graciella thought we’d better tell you first. She said it’d be nice of us to leave something for you to do.”

  Savich rose, walked to the boys, and hugged them close. They heard him say over Graciella’s laughter, “

  You guys better teach Sean everything you know, all right?”

  Ruth looked at Dix. “If the boys heard that, then this isn’t exactly what you’d call a private conference. Maybe they’d like to go outside with Graciella. I’m thinking a nice bribe is in order. Okay, Sherlock?”

  Ten minutes later, Graciella was out the door, three boys at her heels, headed for the ice cream parlor on Prospect Street.

  “Okay,” Savich said, sitting down again, “it’s time for you to give us an update on your Maestro investigation.”

  “We’ve had to back off the embalming angle,” Ruth said. “There’s no way to track it to a specific purchase. The fluid is available everywhere, even traded as a street drug. Some people are suicidal or stupid enough to soak marijuana in it as a replacement for PCP.

  “As for the BZ gas, I found out that even though they load a chemical like that into conventional bombs for warfare, it’s easily available to the public. Rob and Rafe could order it online. I checked some scientific journals on MEDLINE, and the drug seems to be an industry standard for research on some types of neurotransmitters. Thousands of labs around the world have a supply. Like embalming fluid, trying to track down purchases of BZ to Maestro is daunting.

  “I did find out that when I was in the cave I didn’t necessarily have to breathe it in. It’s a contact hazard, too. I could have easily absorbed it through my skin if enough had settled on something I touched.”

  Sherlock asked, “So where are you guys going to take it from here?”

  “We’re starting to look for evidence of an undiscovered serial killer. We’ve checked a fifty-mile radius around Maestro for persons reported missing over the past five years and found nineteen.”

  Sherlock said, “That sounds like a lot. Did you check it statistically?”

  Dix nodded. “Yes, it’s almost fifteen percent higher than average for a predominantly rural area in Virginia. Most of them were young, and some of them may have been runaways. We got ahold of Helen Rafferty’s calendars, all safely filed in her office, and tried to match the dates the people were reported missing with Gordon’s out-of-town appointments.”

  Ruth added, “Naturally, these are short distances, no overnights really necessary, meaning Gordon could have simply driven to a neighboring town, spotted the victim he wanted, and taken her.”

  Dix said, “But we did find half a dozen trips out of town that overlapped with the disappearance of teenagers and young women in their early twenties. Of course, they could be coincidences.”

  Sherlock tapped her fingertips on the table. “If a killer traveled to those towns to take someone, he could have been observed, maybe even seen with a victim.”

  “Yes, of course,” Ruth said. “Dix sent several deputies out of town today to speak with the police in the towns around Maestro. We want them to know all the details about what’s happened in Maestro and what happened to Erin. They need to take a fresh look at all those cases, and talk to the families again.”

  “You think it’s Gordon?” Sherlock asked.

  Dix said, “It’s a tough call, particularly since he was my wife’s uncle, but Helen’s death especially points to someone local, someone who knows all the players.”

  Ruth said, “For all his protestations, all his tears about Erin and Helen, Gordon was the closest to them.”

  “At this point, there’s still no smoking gun,” Sherlock said. “You accuse Gordon, he’d get all huffy, even laugh at you, and he’d never speak to you again.”

  “We need to develop something else,” Dix said, “some physical evidence, maybe a witness.”

  Savich said, “In other words, you’re talking about lots of good old-fashioned police work. We’ve got personnel to help you canvass those towns you mentioned. I can call the Richmond SAC, Billy Gainer, to coordinate it with you.”

  “Yes, that would be great.”

  When Graciella brought the boys back, all of them on a sugar high from triple-scoop ice cream cones, Ruth decided it was a good time to head out. Sean got it into his head that he would be going with them, which required ten minutes of distracting him before they could leave.

  CHAPTER 33

  SUMMERSET, MARYLAND SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  THE DAY WAS sunny and cold. The weatherman swore there would be no more snow until Tuesday, but no one believed it. Savich and Sherlock arrived in Summerset, Maryland, at three o’clock, and ten minutes later found 38 Baylor Street. Savich pulled Sherlock’s Volvo into the small driveway of a single-level tract house in a subdivision that had been folded into Summerset thirty years before.

  “She’s been renting this house for a little over two years, since she turned twenty-three,” Savich said, studying the small lot with its straggly oak trees hanging partially over the house. “The man who owns it is a big-time woodworker and furniture builder. He employs her, too.”

  Savich knocked on the freshly painted front door, framed by pretty pansy-filled flower boxes. There was no answer, no sound of footsteps. Savich knocked again. After a moment, he stepped back. “Okay, let’s check the garage. She drives a ’96 Camry. If it’s not there, odds are she’s not home.”

  There was a window in the electronic garage door so Savich didn’t need to try to raise it. No Camry. Sherlock scratched her arm through the sling. “She could be anywhere.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, “she could. But you know what? I don’t think Marilyn’s an anywhere kind of person. I’ve got an idea. Let’s go see if I’m right.”

  A short time later Savich pulled onto a two-lane pothole-riddled asphalt road. Sherlock looked at the forest of maple trees, their branches naked and waving in the cold wind. “This looks familiar. You know, I’ll be glad to revisit the barn. It ended right there, all of it.”

  He remembered the long-ago afternoon like it was yesterday. “We won that day. Those two boys they kidnapped won, too.”

  Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “It’s ironic how Moses Grace has some things right and others dead wrong. It’s obvious he did all his research in the newspapers.”

  “Yes, and he imagined the rest. Good heavens, would you look at this.”

  The huge old barn, abandoned for decades, no longer looked dilapidated and derelict. The once-peeling clapboards were freshly painted a bright red and reflected the afternoon sun that speared through the maple branches. The garbage and machine parts that had once littered the outside of the barn were gone. Instead, there was a gravel path leading to the two large front doors. Sherlock said, “It doesn’t look like the same place. You think Marilyn’s done all this?”

  “Who else? Look, one of the doors is propped open. She must be here.” Savich was smiling as he pulled the huge door wide. Sunlight poured in from the west. It was amazing, he thought, staring. It must have taken days to clear out all the moldy hay, the rusted equipment, the wooden troughs. The black circle painted in the middle of the floor that he remembered so clearly was gone. There was no dirt floor, either. It was covered with plywood. The walls had been Sheetrocked and painted, and the windows had glass in them again. The old barn smelled as fresh as the outdoors, with an overlay of new paint, sawdust, and wallpaper glue.

  They walked back toward the tack room, noticed the dropped ceiling with new hang
ing lamps that sent out huge circles of light. The stairs at the far end of the barn leading up to the loft had been replaced and painted. They looked solid.

  He heard a woman humming and called out, “Marilyn? Is that you?”

  The humming stopped. A voice called out, with just a dollop of healthy fear in it. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Agent Dillon Savich and Agent Sherlock, FBI. Do you remember me?”

  A young woman dressed in ancient paint-stained jeans, a big Plum River sweatshirt, and paint-splattered sneakers strode forward, a paintbrush in her hand. The overweight, slump-shouldered, defeated young woman with the stringy hair and frightened eyes they both remembered had vanished. This woman was healthy, her eyes bright, hair clean and pulled back in a ponytail. “Mr. Savich? Is it really you? Oh my goodness, it is! And don’t you look fine!” She threw her arms around his neck and jumped up to lock her legs around his waist. She reared back a bit and grinned at him. “Oh, this is just dandy. Remember that overnight letter I sent you from Aruba? I told you how glad I was that Tammy didn’t kill you?” She leaned down and gave him two big smacking kisses. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

  Savich gently grasped her wrists and pulled her hands from around his neck. “Marilyn,” he said, laughing, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate your greeting, but this is my wife, Agent Sherlock. You remember her, don’t you? She’s got her arm in a sling right now, but if she didn’t, she’d be over here pulling you off me and hugging you herself for how you helped us.”

  Marilyn twisted in his arms. “Oh hi, Agent Sherlock. Why aren’t you Agent Savich, too?”

  Sherlock grinned at the woman whose legs were still wrapped around her husband’s waist. “Well, you see, Marilyn, there’s already one Agent Savich. Trust me, the FBI doesn’t need two. Besides, my maiden name makes bad guys think twice if they want to tangle with me.”

  “Sherlock,” Marilyn said, rolling the name in her mouth. “Yeah, I like that.” She hopped down and stepped back, smiled up at Savich. “It’s been quite a while, Mr. Savich.”

  “And lots of good changes, too,” Savich added.

  Marilyn nodded. “I took a nine-month course at the Center for Architectural Woodworking in Baltimore two years ago, learned all about drafting shop drawings, jigs and templates, joinery, machining, stuff like that. Then I found out about this old gentleman who has a shop right here in Summerset. He’s totally awesome, an old-style craftsman, really famous in the area for his furniture making. So I managed to talk him into taking me on. Buzz Murphy’s his name. He’s a nice old guy. He’s teaching me everything he knows. And now we’re almost partners. He’s going to sell me his shop when he retires.” She paused. “

  Well, now the old coot wants to marry me—like that’s going to happen.

  “I’m not poor anymore, Mr. Savich—well, not as poor as I used to be. And I’m not a fat old frump, either. I work out and only eat french fries twice a week.” And she lifted up her oversized sweatshirt to show them her midriff as she twirled around.

  Sherlock laughed. “You look great, Marilyn, maybe too great, so I want you to stay away from my husband.” She waved her hand around her. “This is quite a project—look at how much you’ve accomplished.”

  Marilyn beamed at them. “Doesn’t it look great? It’s taken months and months. When I need something done and it’s too much work for me, I find someone who’s good at it. Barter’s the greatest thing going if you have a skill to trade. You can build your own business that way.”

  She waved toward a grouping of four mahogany chairs. “See those chairs I made with Buzz? I really like the Chippendale design.” Marilyn was so excited she was nearly dancing.

  “That’s a late eighteenth-century British design. Look at the elaborate splats—boy, does that ever take concentration and a gentle touch—and the ball-and-claw feet, you bust your butt to get those beauties.”

  “They’re incredible,” Sherlock said. “So very finely made.”

  “Buzz helped me with the splats, but I did the last two all by myself. Bet you can’t tell which are mine, without his help.”

  Savich studied each of them, ran his hand over the intricate splats of one chair, then smiled at her. “No, I can’t tell. You’re really good, Marilyn.”

  “Thank you. I’ve already got the old tack room done. It’s going to be my office. My living area is going up in the old hay loft. I’ll have it done in a couple of months, then I’m moving out here.

  “I decided I don’t want Buzz’s shop or his house, just all his tools and equipment and clients, but I haven

  ’t broken that to him yet since he’s been attached to that shop for thirty years. But my shop will be here. There’s plenty of work space, all I need. And the light, would you look at all the wonderful light!”

  Savich was coming to terms with how much she’d changed. Not only her appearance, but the air of hopelessness that had clung to her, the fear—it was all gone. She was no longer that terrorized girl the Tuttles had abused. In her place appeared this solid young woman.

  Savich took her hand, knowing he was going to scare her again, and hating it. “I don’t want to needlessly frighten you, Marilyn, but we need your help. It has to do with Tammy.”

  Her hand jerked in his, but he held it tight. For an instant, she looked panicked.

  “No, it’s okay. Both Tammy and Tommy are long dead, you know that. It’s about someone close to them. We’re looking for an old man who knew Tammy, maybe her grandfather.”

  “But why? They’re all dead, aren’t they? You swear Tammy’s dead, don’t you, Mr. Savich?”

  “Of course she’s dead,” he assured her. “But there’s a vicious old man out there who’s as insane and violent as Tammy was. He wants to avenge her by killing me. And he wants to hurt Sherlock. Help us, Marilyn. Tell us who he is.”

  “Moses Grace?” she whispered, her face now pale, the old fear back in her eyes. “That old man everyone’s talking about? And that teenage girl he’s got with him? Claudia?”

  Savich nodded.

  “Oh God, do you think he knows about this property?”

  He said matter-of-factly, “No, I have no reason to believe he does. The location of this barn wasn’t in any newspaper accounts. And believe me, Marilyn, if he’d somehow found out about this place, he’d have been here months ago. He doesn’t know. Believe me.”

  “Okay, that’s a good thing. But you think Moses Grace is Tammy’s grandfather?”

  “Yes, he may very well be. He’s too old to be her father.”

  “I don’t want him to kill you, Mr. Savich.” She nodded at Sherlock’s sling. “Did he do that?”

  “Yes, he did,” Savich said.

  “You’re right about it not being Tammy’s daddy. He left when she and Tommy were real young.”

  “Okay. You told me your mother and Tammy’s mother were sisters or half-sisters. Tell us what you remember about any other relatives, Marilyn—names, where they lived, whatever.”

  “It’s hard to talk about them, Mr. Savich, but I’ll try.” She waved them toward the mahogany chairs again. “Sit down, sit down. Okay. Good.” Then she stopped talking. She stretched her legs out in front of her and stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets.

  She said finally, slowly, as if the words were being pulled out of her against her will, “Dalton, Kansas, that’s where I grew up with my mom. Tammy and Tommy lived with their mom in Lucas City, a little farming town maybe fifteen miles away. There weren’t ever any daddies around that I can remember. But both moms had been married, I’m sure of that. Tammy’s mom was Aunt Cordie. Cordelia Tuttle—Tuttle was her husband’s name, but like I said, he was long gone. My daddy’s name was Warluski, so my mom was Marva Warluski. My old man took off before I was even born.

  “My mom used to say that Cordie had the brain of a mushroom and was meaner than a copperhead snake, just look at Tommy and Tammy, carbon copies of her. Whenever Tommy and Tammy beat me up, my mom said it was okay as long as
I still had my neck because I had to toughen up.

  “I used to hide when they came to visit.” She paused for a moment, her face twisted. “They always found me, and they walloped me anyway. My mom called me a wuss.”

  “Do you remember other aunts or uncles?”

  Marilyn shook her head. “My mom never spoke of any. Aunt Cordie didn’t, either.”

  “And both your mom and Tammy’s mom died, is that right, Marilyn?”

  Marilyn’s eyes popped open. “Yes, Mr. Savich, they died when we were all teenagers. That’s when Tommy and Tammy took me away, told me I had to do exactly what they said or they’d put me in a hole filled with snakes.”

  “How did they die?”

  “Tommy said they broke into this old lady’s house to take her social security money, but she wouldn’t tell them where she kept it. A neighbor heard the old lady screaming and called the police. They ran out of there, the cops chasing them, and one of the cops shot out a rear tire. Mom couldn’t hold the car on the road, and they hit a tree. Killed them both.”

  Sherlock felt a wave of revulsion and swallowed. Marilyn spoke so matter-of-factly about it. She saw Dillon’s expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes were darker and hard. He said, “Think now what your mom’s maiden name was.”

  “My mom’s name was Marva Gilliam.”

  “Was that Cordie’s name, too?”

  “Aunt Cordie—yes, she was Gilliam, too, because they were sisters, not half sisters.”

  “Good. Very good. So she was Cordelia Gilliam. Did your grandfather and grandmother ever come around?”

  She closed her eyes again. “I don’t ever remember a grandmother. But Granddaddy—yeah, I remember him. He never stayed with us, only with Aunt Cordie. I was maybe six years old when he came. Something must have happened because he suddenly left. Maybe he did something bad and had to run. He was mean, Mr. Savich, as mean as Aunt Cordie and Tommy and Tammy. He’d hit Tammy upside the head, then he’d cuddle her and stroke her hair. It scared me to death. It wasn’t right, I see that now. What he’d do when he cuddled Tammy wasn’t right.”