The Maze ft-2

by Catherine Coulter

  "But he did kill her, didn't he?"

  "Yes, he did. I wondered and wondered, then I even had some tests done on the wooden props used in all the murders in San Francisco, the hammering and screwing techniques, stuff like that. There's an expert in Los Angeles who's really good at that sort of thing. But his results were inconclusive. Marlin Jones killed her. He must have realized who I was and lied to me, to torture me. Who are you? Why do you care?"

  "Hey, I'm a journalist." He laughed again. He was big into laughter, this guy. She felt blood dripping off her hair onto her face. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  "Yeah, I'm a journalist and I like to know the inside scoop. You guys are so closemouthed that none of us know what's going on. Yeah, I'm with the Washington Post. My name's Garfield." He laughed. He was really enjoying himself.

  Then just as suddenly, he straightened, and she knew that if he weren't wearing that mask, she'd see that his eyes had gone cold and dead. "Is that all, little girl?"

  "Yes, that's all," she said now, her voice shaking with fear. No, she thought, it wasn't enough. More shaking, more show of fear. "But why do you care whether or not I go home? Or does the person who sent you want me to leave? Why? I'm no threat to anyone." Marlin Jones was in her mind. Was he somehow behind this?

  The man was silent for a moment, and she knew he was studying her, weighing his options. Who was he?

  He said finally, reaching out his hand to touch a clump of bloody hair, "You know what I think? 1 think that just maybe old Marlin didn't kill your sister. You're like a little terrier, yanking and jerking and pulling, but you won't find anything.

  "Now I believe that's all I need to know. I'll tell you just one last time. Leave Washington. Stay with the FBI if you want to, but transfer. Go home, little girl. Now, let's have us

  a good time."

  He walked toward her, the gun aimed right at her chest. "I want you to march your little butt to the bedroom. I want you to stretch out all pretty-like on the bed. Then we'll see."

  She knew pleading wouldn't gain her anything. She turned and walked out of the kitchen. He was going to rape her. Then would he kill her as well? Probably. But the rape, she wouldn't take the rape, she couldn't. He'd have to kill her before she'd let him rape her. Who had hired him?

  What to do? He didn't think Marlin had killed Belinda? Why did he care? What was going on here?

  "Please, who are you?"

  He just motioned the gun toward the bed.

  She was standing now beside her bed, not wanting to lie down, hating the thought of him being over her, of him in control.

  "Take off that bathrobe."

  Her hands were fists at her sides. He raised the gun. She took off the bathrobe.

  "Now lie down and open those legs real wide for me."

  "Why don't you think Marlin killed my sister?"

  "Business is over. It's party time. Lie down, little girl, or I'll just have to hurt you real bad."

  She couldn't do it. She couldn't.

  He took a step toward her, the gun raised. He was going to hit her with the butt again, probably break her jaw this time. She had to do something.

  The phone rang.

  Both of them stared at it.

  It rang again.

  "It might be my boss," she said, praying harder than she'd ever prayed in her life. "He knows I'm home. He said he might call. There was an assignment he wanted to talk to me about."

  "That big guy who brought you here? That's your boss?"

  She nodded and wished again that she could see his face, see his expression.

  Another ring.

  "Answer it. But you be careful what you say or you're dead where you stand."

  She picked up the phone and said quietly, "Hello?"

  "That you, Sherlock?"

  "Yes, sir, it's me, sir."

  He was silent a moment. She was praying, hard.

  "I just wanted to tell you that Sally asked to meet you. She wants you to come to the Bonhomie Club tomorrow night. Quinlan's going to be playing both nights."

  "That sounds nice, sir, but you know that I never mix any business with pleasure. It's a rule I always stick to, sir."

  He was mouthing at her, "Get rid of him!"

  "I've got to go, sir. Tell Sally I'm sorry, sir. That assignment you wanted to talk to me about, sir, I'll be in early tomorrow. I've got to go now."

  The gun was pressing at her temple. She gulped, then gently hung up the phone.

  "I heard what the guy said. You're lucky you didn't blow it, little girl. Now."

  He pulled some slender nylon rope from his pocket. "Put those arms up over your head."

  He was going to tie her down. Then he could do anything he wanted to with her.

  Slowly, slowly, she raised her arms. Why had she wanted a brass bed with a slatted brass headboard? He was coming over to her; soon now, soon, and she would have a chance.

  He leaned down, the rope in one hand, the gun in the other. He seemed uncertain what to do with the gun. Put it down, she said in her mind, over and over, as she looked up at him. Put it down. I'm skinny. You can take me. Don't be afraid.

  He made up his mind. He backed off. "Turn on your stomach."

  She stared at him.

  "Do it now or I'll make you really sorry."

  She couldn't do it. She just couldn't. Without thought, without hesitation, she lurched up and rammed her head into his belly. At the same time, she flung out both fists against his forearms. She heard him cursing, heard the pain in his voice, and kept hitting him. Quickly she threw herself to the floor, rolling onto her back. He was heaving hard, over her now, the gun up, and she kicked with all her strength, her foot hitting his hand.

  The gun went flying.

  He threw himself down on her. His fist landed hard against her jaw, then he raised her head, grabbed fistfuls of damp hair, and slammed her head against the floor once, twice, three times. She heard a yell and a moan. The sounds were from her. She tried to bring her legs up to kick him but couldn't manage it. She felt numbness, then knifing pain shot through her head. She vaguely heard his curses from above her, and they grew more distant. She thought she heard the phone ring again. She thought she heard him breathing hard over her. Then she didn't know about anything. She fell into blackness.

  He was scared spitless. The front door stood wide open. Savich forced himself to be careful, to go slowly, but what he wanted to do was roar in there. God, what had happened?

  He drew his gun and eased inside the town house. Slowly, he reached for the light switch and flipped it on. He was in a crouch in the next instant, sweeping his SIG-Sauer around him in a wide arc.

  No one.

  "Sherlock?"

  Nothing.

  He didn't even pause now. He ran into the living room, switching on lights as he went. She wasn't there. Nor was she in the kitchen.

  He was in the hallway when he heard a moan.

  She was lying on the floor next to the bed, naked. Blood streaked down the side of her face.

  He was on his knees beside her, his fingers pressed against the pulse in her neck. Slow and steady. He turned her over.

  "Sherlock! Wake up!"

  She moaned again, low and deep in her throat. She tried to bring up her hand to her head, but couldn't do it. Her hand fell. He caught it before it hit the floor. He laid her hand over her belly.

  He leaned close over her, an inch from her face. "Sherlock, wake the hell up. You're scaring the bejesus out of me. Wake up!"

  She heard his voice. He sounded incredibly angry-no, not angry, but really worried. She had to open her eyes, but she knew any movement at all would hurt really badly.

  "Talk to me. Come on, you can do it. Talk to me."

  She managed to open her eyes. He was blurry, but his voice was low and deep and eminently sane. She was so grateful, so relieved. She whispered over the pain, "You came. I knew the multiple sirs would get to you."

  "They did. The first time you said it
, I wanted to trim your sails but good, but then you said it again. I knew something was wrong. Where'd he hit you?"

  "My head, with the butt of his gun."

  He didn't want to ask, but he had to. "Did he rape you?"

  "He would have tried, but I just couldn't let him do it. He wanted me to lie down on my stomach. When he moved in I attacked him. That's when he knocked me off the bed and started banging my head against the floor. It kind of hurts, Dillon."

  "Did he hit you anywhere else?"

  "Just a fist in the jaw."

  "Let me get you up on the bed."

  "He's gone? You're sure he's gone? I don't want him to sneak back and hurt you."

  Hurt him? Blood was trickling down the side of her face and she was worried about him? "I'll go lock the front door in just a minute." While he spoke, he slid his hands beneath her and lifted her. She didn't weigh much. He laid her on the bed, then very quickly drew a blanket over her.

  "Don't move," he said, turned, and went back to the front door. He looked around outside, then came back into the house and locked the door.

  When he was seated beside her again on the side of the bed, he said quietly, "No one's about now. Now, I'm going to call the paramedics and get you to the hospital."

  Her hand shot up. "No, no hospital. I'm all right. I've got a very hard head. Maybe a concussion, but there's nothing they can do for that, just time. I've got time here. Please, no hospital. I hate hospitals. They'll give me more shots in the butt. That's awful."

  He just looked down at her, then turned to the phone. He dialed a number, then said, "It's Savich. Sorry to bother you, Ned, but could you come to this address and check out one of my agents for me? The guy who attacked her hit her pretty hard in the head. I don't know if she'll need stitches. No, no hospital. Yeah, thanks."

  When he hung up the phone, she said, "A doctor who makes house calls? That's got to be rarer than the great auk." "Ned Breaker owes me. I got his kid away from kidnappers last year. He's a good guy. We became friends. Now, enough of that. It'll take him a good thirty minutes to get here. Do you feel well enough to tell me what happened?"

  "After you left, I took a shower. When I got out, he was standing behind me when I wiped the fog off the bathroom mirror. He was wearing a black ski mask and carrying a cheap .22. He wanted me to leave town. Then I talked about Marlin Jones, and he seemed interested in that. I don't know whether or not the person who sent him meant for him to rape me. Maybe, like that almost hit-and-run, he was just trying to scare me, which he did.

  "'Really, though, the bottom line was that I should go home to my family. When I asked him if he was the one who tried to run me down, he didn't answer me. I think he could have been. He had a slight accent, from Alabama, maybe."

  "What did you tell him about Marlin Jones?"

  "The truth. There was no reason not to. I think somehow Marlin Jones had to have sent him. He tried not to be too interested in Marlin, but he was. He wanted me to believe Marlin was innocent."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Yes, but again, I think his mission was to scare me to death, scare me enough to make me run. Then he said business was over. He said he wanted to rape me."

  Her eyes were vague, her voice slowing down, her words slurring. He shook her shoulders. "Sherlock, wake up. Come on, you can do it." He lightly slapped her cheek, then cupped her jaw in the palm of his hand. "Wake up."

  She blinked, trying hard. She wanted to tell him that his hand on her jaw hurt, but all she said was, "Probably a concussion. I'll stay awake, I promise. He was going to tie my hands above my head, to the slats of the bed, but he knew I'd attack if he dropped the gun, so he told me to lie on my stomach. I couldn't do that, Dillon, I just couldn't. That's when-" Curtains, black curtains were swinging down over her eyes, over her mind. She couldn't see anything.

  "Wake up, Sherlock!"

  "I'm awake. Don't yell at me, it hurts. I won't konk out on you, I promise. But I can't see."

  "Your eyes are closed."

  "That's not it."

  In the next moment, she was unconscious, her head lolling to the side. He'd never dialed 911 so fast in his life.

  21

  THE HEAT BURNED STRAIGHT into her head. It was hotter than anything she could have imagined. Any second now she'd go up in flames. No, it was a light, a real light, not some monster that her brain had dredged up. It was too bright, too strong, too hot. It burned beneath her eyelids. She tried to turn away from the light, but it hurt too much to move her head.

  "Sherlock? Can you hear me? Open your eyes." Of course she could hear him. He was using that deep voice of his that made her nerve endings quiver, but she couldn't say anything, her mouth was too dry. She tried to form the words, but no sound came out.

  A woman said, "Give her some water."

  Someone raised her head. She felt cold water on her lips and opened her mouth. She choked, then slowed down. She drank and drank until finally the water was dribbling down her chin.

  "Now can you talk to me?"

  "The light," she whispered. "Please, the light."

  The same woman's voice said, "It must be hurting her."

  The light was gone in the next instant and it was now shadowy and dim. She sighed with relief. "That's better. Where's Dillon?"

  "I'm right here. You scared me out of a good year at the gym. We were both doing just fine until you had the nerve to pass out on me."

  "I didn't mean to do that. It was weak and unnecessary.

  I'm sorry. Does my health coverage take care of the paramedics and the emergency room?"

  "I doubt it. I think it will come out of your pay. Now, here's Dr. Breaker. He got to your house just as the paramedics were pulling out, claims he was speeding to get there. Turns out he has admitting privileges here at Washington Memorial."

  "Your voice made me quiver-all dark and soft, like falling into a deep, deep well. If I were a criminal, I'd say anything you wanted to keep you talking to me like that. It's a wonderful voice. Plummy-that's how a writer would describe your voice."

  "Thank you. I think."

  "Agent Sherlock. I'm Dr. Breaker."

  He shined a penlight in her eyes, felt the bumps on her head, and said over his shoulder to Dillon, "She's not going to need any stitches, just some of my magic tape. Scalp wounds tend to really bleed."

  "They bleed like stink."

  "Yes, that's right. Interesting way of saying it."

  "It's what the man said. And he said it in a southern way. He drawled out stink into two syllables."

  She'd already told him that, but he said, "That's good, Sherlock. Anything else?"

  "Not just yet, Savich. Hold off a bit. Let me clean her up, then you can talk her ear off." He cleared his throat. "She wasn't raped, was she?"

  "No, I wasn't. I'm not dead, Dr. Breaker. You can speak to me."

  "Well, you see, Agent, I owe everything to Savich here and nothing at all to you. If he wants me to report to him, he's got it."

  "I report to him. You report to him. Soon the president will report to him. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. My head hurts."

  "I'll just bet it does. Lie still now. When you first came in, we did a CT scan. Not to worry, it was normal. We always do a CT scan when there's a head injury, to check for evidence of bleeding. You didn't have any. What happened to your arm? What's this sling for?"

  "A knife wound," Savich said. "It's nearly well now. Happened a couple of weeks ago."

  "Why don't you let her heal before you send her into the arena with the monsters again?"

  She laughed. There was nothing else to do.

  The next time she heard anything, it was a strange man speaking.

  "When you roared out of the club like a bat out of its belfry, I thought Sally was going to have Marvin tackle you. You scared us, Dillon. This is Sherlock?"

  "Yes, that's her in all her glory."

  "She looks like a little mummy only her skin isn't leather."

  "Thanks," Lacey
said, not opening her eyes. She realized then that there was a huge bandage over the cut in her scalp. She raised her hand to touch it, but to her disgust, she didn't have the strength. Dr. Breaker was right. It wasn't fair that she had to be hurt again before she'd healed completely from the other time. Her hand fell, only again Dillon caught it and laid it gently at her side.

  "You alive, Sherlock?"

  "Yes, thank you. I'm tired of this, sir. At least last time in that Boston hospital I was sitting up the whole time."

  "Don't whine. You'll live."

  "She calls you 'sir'? My God, Dillon, do you require that all your people call you sir?"

  "No, just the women. It makes me feel powerful."

  "He's lying," she said, cracking open her eyes. To her relief, the light in the room was dim. "He takes all the women to the gym and stomps them into the floor. The 'sir' stuff is my idea. I hope it makes him feel responsible, and guilty."

  "I don't feel guilty. I walked you home. You want me to believe that I should have taken you inside? Checked all your closets and looked under the bed? Well, maybe from now on I will. You attract trouble, Sherlock, too much of it." But he sounded guilty, really guilty. She wanted to tell him not to be ridiculous, but he said quickly, "This is Special Agent James Quinlan. We go way back together."

  "You make it sound like we're nearly to retirement, Dillon. Hi, Ms. Sherlock." He took her hand in his.

  "You call him Dillon too." His hand was strong, and there were calluses on his thumbs. She'd seen a web of scars on Dillon's fingers and hands: fine, pale white scars. He'd told her he whittled. Whittled what?

  "Yeah, I always thought Savich sounded too tough, too macho, so to spare my manhood I never called him that. Besides, I'm tougher than he is. Hey, what's in a name?" "He was with you at that place called the Cove?" "Nan, he just came in on the deal when most of the fun was over."

  "That's a lie. I saved Sally."

  "That's true, he did help. A little bit. Dillon's always there to back me up."

  She said, "You're Sally's husband?" "Yes, she's mine, the skinny little wench. I've got to tell you, Agent Sherlock, I don't like any of this. You're a target and we've got to find out why."

  "None of us likes it, Quinlan," Savich said. "Don't act proprietary. She's not in your unit. I will get to the bottom of this. Hey, Sherlock, you do look like a mummy. You want some more water before I start grilling you again? I'll use my special voice. Quinlan's not bad at it either, only not as plummy."