The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “I’d better be. Dix looks like he wants to start a brawl. We’ll call you from the hospital, Dillon, let you know everyone’s status.”

  Savich heard Dix yelling at someone in the background. He pulled off at the next exit. “It’s back we go to the city,” he said. “Even though I can’t tell you for certain where Makepeace is, I want to get over to Julia’s house and find those journals. They’re at the center of this thing, Sherlock. I think we’ll find some answers when we find those journals.”

  “Are you going to let Julia come with us?”

  “It’s a tough call, but you know, Julia knows every nook and cranny in her own house. We need her. Captain Paulette will provide enough people to keep Makepeace away, if he so happens to show up there.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ear,” Sherlock said.

  CHAPTER 49

  At two o’clock that afternoon, Julia, with Savich, Sherlock, and Cheney close behind her, unlocked the front door of her house and stepped in. The large entryway was filled with shadows, empty and silent.

  She shuddered. “It seems like I’ve been gone years rather than days,” Julia said. “It’s like a stranger’s house.”

  Cheney took her hand. “We don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary, Julia.” He frowned at Savich, who raised his hand.

  “Listen, Cheney, we’ve already discussed this into the ground. We’ve got to find those journals. Both you and Julia said Kathryn Golden put extraordinary emphasis on them. Julia knows this house, knows all its hiding places. They’ve got to be here, so let’s get busy. The sooner we find those journals, the sooner we’re out of here. Julia, you said you already searched your husband’s study, but we’ll start there.”

  “I didn’t really search everywhere, simply gathered all his things up.”

  “Okay, then you and Cheney go to the study. Cheney knows more about hiding places than a drug dealer. Sherlock and I will start here in the living room.”

  When they were alone, Savich walked to the front windows and pulled back the thick draperies. He saw a man across the street dressed in an aloha shirt, trimming a neighbor’s bushes. Another man was mowing a yard. Both were undercover cops.

  He joined Sherlock in front of the painting over the mantel. “So that’s Dr. August Ransom,” he said. “His eyes are dark and intense, just like Wallace Tammerlane and Bevlin Wagner.” Were they a necessity, he wondered, for the psychic package? He glanced into a mirror on the wall beside the fireplace, and his own dark intense eyes stared back at him.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  There weren’t any wall safes behind paintings, there weren’t any safes behind the books that filled the single bookshelf against one wall. Sherlock checked the floorboards—no hollow sounds, nothing under the carpet.

  “Well, I say we do the kitchen next,” she said. “I vote for the Sub-Zero freezer.”

  Julia and Cheney walked into the living room, Cheney shaking his head. “Nothing. We even moved his big desk aside to check the floorboards. Zilch, nada.”

  Julia said, “I’m thinking I should check August’s bedroom next. I did only a quick clean-out. He worked in there as well.” She turned to leave the living room when in that moment there was a very slight creaking of an oak plank overhead.

  They all stared upward. Cheney already had his SIG pulled. Savich placed his finger on his lips. “Julia, how would he get in the house without any of the cops outside seeing him?”

  She looked perfectly blank, then, “I remember. There are some ancient fire stairs hanging from outside the attic window, bolted to the side of the house. They’re mostly covered with vines and bushes because August thought they were an eyesore, wanted them hidden.”

  Cheney said, lowering his voice, “We’re not going to take any chances with Julia. She and I are going to hunker down in the kitchen pantry; it’s probably the safest place in the house. We’ll be as quiet as we can.”

  Savich said, “I don’t care what happens, keep Julia safe. Sherlock, you’re with me.”

  Once Cheney and Julia had disappeared, Savich and Sherlock walked to the foot of the grand staircase, and stood quietly, listening.

  There was not a whisper of a sound.

  “Maybe it was only a creak from an old house,” Sherlock whispered.

  “Possible.” He motioned her to the other side of the stairs, opposite the door to the living room, beneath the staircase.

  Sherlock dropped to her knees, keeping a clear view up the stairs to the second-floor landing. She didn’t have much patience. It drove her nuts to hold herself still and not run up the stairs, listening to her own heartbeat, the thump of her pulse in her throat, wanting to scratch an itch, but not daring to move. They waited, until her feet were numb and her stomach was growling. She looked at Dillon, still motionless as a shadow on a still night.

  Like her, he was partially hidden behind a newel post, the one Julia’s bullet had blown apart on Saturday night.

  Savich was thinking of his father, a man who’d marveled at this ability in his son because he, Buck Savich, had been a live wire, never still, always on the move. Savich looked over at Sherlock. He could practically see wild waves of energy jumping off her. He knew she was well-trained, an excellent shot, and blessed with great reflexes, but he couldn’t help feeling the familiar punch of fear in his gut whenever she was in danger. He doubted it would ever fade. What amazed and pleased him was that she felt the same way about him.

  Why wasn’t there another sound? Maybe because there was nothing there. But he didn’t believe that for a second. He’d wager Makepeace was standing still as a rock, like they were, listening as intently as they were. He had to know they were in the house. Did he also know about the cops outside? Probably. Ah, but he couldn’t be sure they were on to him. He had to come out of the corridor and onto the second-floor landing. He had to make a move, it only made sense. Surely he was waiting for Julia to come upstairs. Did he have any idea why they were here? Savich bet he knew exactly why they were here—how, he didn’t know, but Makepeace knew.

  One eternal minute passed, then another. It seemed like a decade. Makepeace had to know something was wrong by now. It had been too long since anyone had made any noise. Then Savich knew why. “Down, Sherlock!”

  An explosion rocked the house. Smoke and flames shot at them from the upstairs, debris spewing onto the landing and stairs from the corridor to the left. Smoke billowed down the stairs, blanketing them. This wasn’t for show—not like at the Mariner, mostly smoke and noise—this was a huge blast, meant to destroy, meant to kill. There was another explosion more distant, from the corridor to the right, probably from Julia’s bedroom at the end of the hall. Her bedroom was right over the kitchen.

  Plaster fell in large chunks from the ceiling, walls heaved and bowed. Savich grabbed Sherlock’s hand and together they ran through the billowing black smoke gushing all around them. They heard the huge house shudder, the sound of collapsing ceilings and walls and the crackling of flames, gaining purchase now, spreading fast. Heat swooped down from the second floor, swallowing the air.

  The kitchen ceiling was crashing down in big chunks, the beams still holding, but now in flames. Black smoke was filling the room.

  They saw Cheney and Julia running toward the back door, wet dish towels pressed against their faces, Cheney trying to keep Julia behind him.

  “We’ve got to cover them!” Savich shouted and raced toward them.

  Cheney and Julia burst out of the screened door, and were running, bent over, toward the flower-covered brick patio, when a bullet struck Cheney in the chest and knocked him back against the house. He lurched sideways, managed to grab Julia and flatten her against the house, twisting to slam his body against hers.

  Another bullet struck him in the center of the back. They heard him grunt, but he still pressed hard against Julia, covering her as best he could.

  Outside, Savich peeled to the right, Sherlock to the left, separating themselves as targets,
trying to get Makepeace between them, firing steadily toward the back of the property, the only place where Makepeace could have found cover.

  “Get down!” Savich yelled as Cheney began to turn, his gun in his hand.

  “No, Cheney, stay with Julia! Get down!” Savich shouted again, still firing. He saw Cheney and Julia sliding down the wall onto the patio, between two big ceramic flowerpots that provided them some cover. A bullet struck one of the pots, shattering it, spewing dirt, primroses, and shards of ceramic into the air.

  Flames and smoke billowed out of the upstairs windows and through the open back door. Chunks of burning wood crashed down onto the patio behind them. Savich and Sherlock emptied their clips into the lower branches of the oak tree at the back of the property, and slammed in new clips. Savich raised his hand after a moment. They were both on their knees, hidden behind thick wooden trellises, covered with wisteria.

  Everything was quiet again.

  Savich listened. Above the crackling flames, he heard cops shouting, a couple of guns firing, and sirens wailing in the distance. His breath was pumping out. It burned from breathing in smoke.

  Sherlock said, “Captain Paulette’s officers must have gotten around the back.”

  “Yes,” Savich said, scanning the trees. “I think Makepeace is gone, cut his losses.”

  They slowly rose, still fanning the area, searching for the slightest movement. It was hard to see clearly through the thickening black smoke pouring out of the blazing house, blanketing the backyard.

  “I don’t know if we hit him,” Sherlock said.

  The heat and smoke pressed them hard now, pushing them back, coughing and wheezing, gasping for air. They heard the shouts of cops coming around the sides of the house, tasted the acrid smoke snaking down their throats, and knew they had to get out of there.

  Savich prayed the cops had shot Makepeace.

  The roof over Julia’s bedroom crashed down into the kitchen with a muffled roar just as the fire trucks pulled up out front.

  CHAPTER 50

  Sweat was pouring off their smoke-blackened faces. Savich and Sherlock went down on their knees beside Cheney as he yelled up at Julia. "Stop hovering and patting me, I’m okay, I’m fine.”

  "Hold still, macho. He shot you twice because you had to play the damned hero—”

  Cheney looked up at her filthy face, her hair straggling out of her ponytail band, and her red bloodshot eyes. He knew there was smoke in her lungs and that worried him. He saw wild fear in her eyes, lightly touched his fingertips to her mouth, and said, “You sure look pretty.”

  “What? Have you totally lost your mind?”

  Sherlock laughed, couldn’t help herself. “Enough with the compliments. Come on, you guys, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  But Julia was holding him, her breathing hitching now. He grabbed her hands. “Listen, Julia, I’m okay. I’m wearing a Kevlar vest. No bullets inside me. Just hurts a bit, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m wearing one of those vests too, so why did you shove me against the wall and climb all over me?”

  “I serve and protect, ma’am.”

  She was sputtering, she was so frazzled. And trying not to smile.

  Savich looked up when Frank Paulette came down on his haunches beside Cheney. “Hey, boy, you’re looking a little green around the gills. Got hit on the Kevlar, did you? You’re going to have some big-time bruises and some sore ribs, but there’s nothing like Kevlar to keep you alive. How about we get our butts out of here right this second?”

  Savich pulled Cheney up to his shoulder in a firefighter’s carry and ran around the side of the house, the rest of them protecting Julia as best they could.

  They ran across the front lawn and stopped at the curb, still huddled together, covering each other. When Savich eased Cheney off his shoulder and onto the ground, Cheney decided that, Kevlar vest or not, it felt like he’d been kicked in the chest by a pissed-off Pamplona bull. Cheney looked up at Frank, who’d just pocketed his cell. “Tell me your people got him, that’s all I want to hear. I’ll stand up and dance if you tell me that.”

  “Not yet, but he can’t get far. We’ve got cops on the ground, fanning out, we’ll get him. Savich said they laid down thick fire. Maybe they got him.”

  A beam from a gable at one end of the house exploded and crashed, raining down hot fireworks.

  “Captain!”

  Frank slewed his head around. “You got him, Booker?”

  “He didn’t steal a car, Captain, he stole himself a motorcycle, hid it in some bushes beside one of the neighbors’ driveways, a few doors down. Charlie saw him roaring out, fired at him, and now half a dozen cops are after him. It won’t be long.”

  “Did he look wounded to you, Booker?”

  “Charlie said the guy was hunched down, had his helmet on, so they couldn’t tell. I don’t know how Makepeace got past Salter and James, Captain, but they never saw a thing until the whole place blew.”

  Cheney said, “Okay, you really can stop patting me, Julia, I’m okay.”

  “Hold still for a minute, boy.” Frank unbuttoned Cheney’s shirt, pulled the Velcro straps open on the Kevlar vest. He lightly touched his fingertips where the bullet had flattened in the material high on Cheney’s chest. Then he peeled off the vest, turned Cheney on his side, and looked at his back. “Oscar-winning bruises, Cheney. If you hadn’t been in front of her, Julia here might not be so happy right now.”

  They stood watching half a dozen powerful arcs of water pound onto the flaming roof. Cheney saw that Julia’s face was blank as she stared at her burning house. He saw her hands clench into fists at her sides as she watched the flames leap out of her bedroom windows.

  He took her hands, smoothed out her fists, kissed her black palms. “Listen to me, you’re all right, and that’s all that matters. We made it.”

  Soon all of Julia’s neighbors spilled out of their houses, staring at the fire in horror and fascination, some of them wetting down their own gardens and roofs with hoses, some of them huddled together in small groups. Several came over to Julia, bringing blankets and coffee, but mostly everyone just stood around and watched.

  The fire chief, Lucky Mulroney, headed their way ten minutes later. “Good news, Mrs. Ransom. We’ve got the fire under control. It looks like maybe half of your house may be structurally intact, but the inspectors won’t be certain until they’ve gone over it carefully.” He looked back. “A bomb—quite a thing. I hate to see one of our beautiful old houses burn.”

  “Yes,” Julia said, not looking away from August’s house. “He was trying to kill me, Chief Mulroney, but he didn’t. This is the third time—” She was interrupted by a TV van screeching to a stop some ten feet away. A man shoved the side panel open and jumped out, a camera on his shoulder, panning until he saw Julia, then he shouted as he zeroed right in. There was probably a microphone as well, she thought. She smiled toward the camera, and waved her black fist in the air. “Did you hear that, you loser? You missed me!”

  Then Mulroney threatened to turn one of the hoses on the van if they didn’t back off. Frank had some of his men form a perimeter.

  Sherlock said, “I’m wondering how Makepeace knew Julia would come out the back of the house.”

  Savich said. “He was playing the odds, though the fact is, he couldn’t be sure.”

  Frank said, “Or it could mean there was someone with him— Makepeace was in the back and his partner in the front, but where? I had lots of guys spread out in front.”

  Cheney said, “You might never find where Makepeace was hiding with so many people tromping around all over the place.”

  “We’ll keep looking. Maybe the guy smoked, left a butt.”

  Sherlock said, “We heard footsteps upstairs, Frank, not all that long before it blew. So Makepeace had to be in the house.”

  She continued after a moment, “Maybe that’s why he didn’t go for a head shot on you, Cheney, he had to move too fast to get out of there
and wanted to be sure he hit you. Then Julia would have been in the open.”

  Cheney rubbed his chest. “He got me straight on in the chest and in the center of my back, both fine shots.”

  Frank said, “Does anyone have a clue who this partner of his could be, if there was someone? The guy out here to watch the front?”

  Savich shrugged. “Could be the person who hired Makepeace to kill Julia, or he could have hired some local talent. The thing is, though, we’ve never heard of Makepeace working with a partner. ”

  Savich’s cell rang. He listened, then punched off. He looked at them. “That was Dix. Kathryn Golden’s still heavily sedated. They don’t expect her to make much sense for a while yet. They’ve got her at Stanford, a cop on her door.”

  A police officer came running up. “We found the motorcycle, Captain, but Makepeace was long gone. That’s the bad, here’s the good.” The officer grinned big. “We got us a witness, an old guy who was walking to the little park right across the street from his house on Brinkley with his seven-year-old great-granddaughter. He said a man plowed his motorcycle real fast right into a mess of thick bushes on the far side of the park, didn’t even try to stop. Then the guy jumped off. In the next minute this small blue car pulled up and he got inside. Car took off. The old guy said he doesn’t know about cars, so had no clue as to its make, didn’t see anything else. Our people are canvassing the neighborhood. Someone else had to see something.”

  Savich said, “Officer, wait a moment. Cheney, you and Julia should go back to the Sherlocks’ house. Sherlock and I will go speak to this witness.”

  Sherlock heard Julia say, “I’m so relieved Freddy went home on Sunday.”

  Savich arched an eyebrow. “Freddy?”

  Cheney was laughing. “The neighbor’s cat.”

  As they walked away, they heard reporters yelling out questions to them from twenty yards away.

  CHAPTER 51

  About a half mile from Julia’s house, on Brinkley Street, Savich and Sherlock found the old man standing on his narrow front porch in front of a 1940s cottage, leaning on a cane. He told them first thing that he’d stashed his great-granddaughter safely inside the house. “A wild thing it was,” he said, shaking his head, “happened real fast. My name’s Tuck Wilson.”