The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  “Ah, look. Our subject behind the glass is giving us the evil eye, probably wondering if we’re criminals or we’re using Bricker’s Bowl as a hideaway to cheat on our spouses. And that boy’s putting too much air in that tire. If he’s not careful, it’s going to explode.”

  Sherlock said, “I ran searches on Children of Twilight myself.”

  He waited. “But?”

  “Well, I did find a reference to a possible origin of the phrase, but, Dillon, it’s really out there—”

  “And your point would be?” Savich held up his hand. The woman on the other side of the glass was reaching for the phone at her right elbow. He said, “Tell me the origin when we’re done here. It’s time for me to pump gas.”

  Savich leisurely stepped from the car and eased the nozzle into the gas tank. The woman at the register dropped the phone into its receiver and turned back to watch him. He could tell from twenty feet away that her face was loaded down with makeup, from bloodred lipstick to bright blue eyelids. He gave her a little wave.

  He replaced the gas nozzle and walked inside to pay the woman. He saw lines of suspicion form on her face. Her blue-shadowed green eyes were lined with black.

  He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice smooth, confident. “Nice dress.”

  She looked surprised and uncertain, the compliment unexpected, and she leaned toward him but only for a moment. Then she pulled back, crossed her heavy arms over her chest. She eased one leg over the other, letting her flowy blue print dress ease up to her knees.

  “That’ll be only fourteen dollars and sixty-three cents,” she said, extending her hand. “Why’d you stop here when you didn’t need any gas to speak of?”

  Savich glanced at her name tag as he peeled the bills out of his wallet. “You’re Doreen, right?”

  “That’s me,” she said, and took his money. “You got three pennies?”

  She had a deep Georgia drawl, every word syrupy-slow and with vowels. Savich shook his head no, watched her make change.

  She gave him back a lot of nickels and pennies—payback, he supposed—then asked, her voice careful, “You and the missus take a wrong turn?”

  “Oh, no,” Savich said. “We’re here to see the Backmans.”

  He saw the whip of fear in her eyes before she smoothed it away. “Nice family,” Doreen said, looking down at an old People magazine with Drew Barrymore’s expressive face on the cover. He saw Doreen didn’t believe him. She said, “Outsiders usually pay with credit cards, not cash, particularly if they don’t have anything to hide.”

  Savich said easily, “But then again I didn’t get much gas, did I? I like to keep rental cars nice and full. Do you also know Caldicot Whistler, Doreen? Good-looking guy about your age?”

  Savich loved this woman. She was wide open, every thought clear on her face. He saw the flash of recognition, then fear or suspicion, or alarm, he wasn’t sure which.

  “Nope, never heard of this Whistler. Dumb name.”

  “I don’t know. I think Blessed is a pretty dumb name too, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Can you give me a recommendation for a place to stay?”

  “The Backmans won’t put you up? They got more bedrooms in that big house than that Hearst Castle place in California. How long you going to be here?”

  “We haven’t decided that yet. I guess we’ll have to see how long our business dealings with Blessed take.”

  She let her breath whoosh out. “You’re not—I mean, you really know Blessed?”

  “Yes. Very well, as a matter of fact.”

  “I don’t know how that can be, since Blessed doesn’t leave Bricker’s Bowl very often and I’ve sure never seen you before. Fact is, though, Blessed’s not here—in town, I mean. Haven’t seen him in more than a week. Heard he borrowed an old SUV from Mr. Claus and headed out. So you’re out of luck.”

  “Then we’ll deal with Grace and Shepherd.”

  “Haven’t seen Grace either. As for Shepherd, who knows? She hardly ever leaves that mansion of hers, much less Bricker’s Bowl. I heard she buried one of her sons—the Lost One—just two weeks ago. Martin was his name. We started out in the first grade together and went all the way through. He was smart.”

  “Why do you call Martin the Lost One?”

  She shrugged her big shoulders. “After he left, Mrs. Backman started calling him that. The Lost One. And she’d cry. No one ever heard from him again, not until his widow brought him back in a miserable urn to plant in the ground since she’d had him cremated up north somewhere. People think that’s not right around here, you know? I heard the urn was made of one of those new specially treated woods, last as long as metal. Can you imagine? I also imagine Shepherd wasn’t happy about that, Blessed and Grace either.”

  “Hey, Martin’s widow brought him back to his hometown and family. That was surely a nice thing for her to do, don’t you think, Doreen?”

  “She was gone fast enough. Della Hoop down at the dry cleaner’s said she heard the widow was this city girl, all proud and proper, and Martin’s little girl was cute as a button. That’s what Mavis at the Food Star told her. Said the little girl liked butter-pecan ice cream. But she didn’t look a thing like her daddy. Martin was dark, had a five-o’clock stubble by the time he was sixteen. Shepherd didn’t like that either, I heard, the little girl looking the image of her mother.”

  Savich nodded. “Blessed told me how he caught that young guy from the newspaper who was at the funeral spying on them, how he told him to go quit his job.”

  Doreen’s eyes flashed again—was it fear? Or was it par for the course when you lived in Blessed’s universe? “The little snoop, serves him right, but old man Maynard wouldn’t let him quit even though he lost his prized camera.”

  “Yeah, Blessed said he smashed the camera.”

  Doreen’s mouth opened and Savich leaned forward a bit. Suddenly she looked out the window. Savich turned to see a big muscle truck, a Chevy Cheyenne, so spit-shined you could see your reflection in its black surface. He saw a gun rack but no one riding shotgun.

  Doreen said, “That there’s Sheriff Cole. Burris probably saw you, wants to check you out. He’s real careful with our town. I told you, Blessed and Grace aren’t here. Why don’t you just leave now? I mean, you got a real full tank now, don’t you? Trust me, you don’t want to tangle with Sheriff Cole.”

  “Tangle with the sheriff? Last thing on my mind. I’m pleased you called him for me, Doreen.”

  40

  “SHERIFF COLE DOESN’T like strangers. He’s always driving through town, watching for them, so you’d best hie yourself out of Bricker’s Bowl, back up to the highway, before he hauls you in and puts the hurt on you. I didn’t call anybody.”

  “The hurt on me? Does he make a habit of beating up strangers who come to Bricker’s Bowl?”

  “Don’t make him think you deserve it.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Savich agreed, and gave Doreen a small salute and a smile that startled her. He walked out the door to stand in the bright sun a moment and stretch. He watched Sheriff Cole climb out of his truck, check himself in the high shine. So this was the man who’d kissed off Ethan. He watched him hoist up his tan polyester pants and settle the wide leather belt and big holster around his middle, run his fingers over the butt of his Smith & Wesson Model 29, Dirty Harry’s classic .44 Magnum. What was this small-town sheriff doing with such a powerful gun? Stupid question. Like his truck, the .44 Magnum helped make him the Big Man, someone with power, someone to fear. He actually was big and muscular, in his late thirties, big hands, big booted feet. He rolled his powerful shoulders and, of all things, cracked his knuckles. Savich sincerely doubted the two of them would ever be friends. This was no Dougie Hollyfield or Ethan Merriweather. This man looked volatile, and that made him very dangerous. If Joanna was right, he was in the Backmans’ pocket.

  What Sheriff Cole really looked like, Savich thoug
ht, was a natural-born bully.

  He came to within four feet of Savich before he stopped, took a wide-legged stance, his fingers still on his gun butt. He stared at Savich, measuring him, assessing him, as if wondering, maybe, how long it would take him to beat Savich unconscious. Savich would bet this guy would go about any beating he did with great joy and viciousness. Savich saw he was wearing two-inch boots and wondered why. The guy was already a good six-foot-three or thereabouts. More intimidation, more huge attitude. No help from this quarter, not after what Ethan had told him. The guy probably feared only three people in this town—all of them named Backman.

  Sheriff Cole had a heavy twang. His voice boomed out deep and hard, filled with threat and violence. “Good afternoon. You want to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”

  Savich saw Sherlock climb slowly out of the Camry. She stood at her ease about eight feet behind the sheriff, her arms loose at her sides, her jacket shoved back so her fingers weren’t more than two inches from her SIG.

  “Or what?” Savich asked easily, a black eyebrow arching.

  “Or, you disrespectful piece of shit, I’ll whip your ass and kick you out of my town.”

  “All that?” Savich smiled as he pulled out his creds and held them out. “If you will look at my credentials, Sheriff, you’ll see I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich. Behind you is Special Agent Sherlock, FBI. You know, Sheriff, I really dislike foul language. You might want to remember that. I didn’t catch your name.”

  Sheriff Cole looked around at Sherlock, narrowed his eyes, then turned back. He spit. No spray, just a wad of spit that hit maybe eight inches from Savich’s right foot. “I’m Sheriff Burris Cole. What are two FBI agents doing in this little town?”

  “Like I told Doreen, we’re here to see Blessed Backman.”

  That rocked him, but to his credit, he recovered quickly. “Well, Blessed’s not here, now, is he? I’ll bet you Doreen already told you that. So I guess there’s no other reason for you to stay.”

  “You’ve got a nice town here, Sheriff. I think Agent Sherlock and I will hang around awhile, see the sights, visit with Shepherd and Grace. Who knows? Maybe Blessed will show up. And, ah, Sheriff, could you tell us where we can find Caldicot Whistler?”

  Savich thought the man would come at him on the spot, but whatever good sense he had stopped him at the last minute. He let out a frustrated breath, keeping the violence pulsing beneath the surface, and hooked his thumbs into his wide leather belt.

  All in all, Savich was disappointed.

  He looked into Cole’s nearly colorless eyes. The sheriff’s fingers dug into his belt so hard they turned white. So he did have some control. A pity.

  “We don’t have any Caldicot Whistler in our town.”

  “If not here then close by. Surely you know about his…organization, Children of Twilight? As a fellow law enforcement officer, I’d sure appreciate some cooperation with this, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff spit again, this time about six inches from Savich’s left foot.

  Savich shook his head, sighed. “No cooperation then. Agent Sherlock, call Director Mueller, tell him we’re going to need a cadre of agents in Bricker’s Bowl as soon as possible. We got us a cult leader to track down.”

  “On it, Chief.”

  Savich heard her speaking on her cell not two seconds later.

  “Now wait a minute, there’s no reason to flood my town with a bunch of federal guys poking into everybody’s business. All right, all right, I’ll help you.”

  “Agent Sherlock, tell the director we might get some local cooperation after all. Now, Sheriff Cole, where is Caldicot Whistler? Where are these Children of Twilight?”

  “I told you, Mr. Whistler doesn’t live in Bricker’s Bowl, but he does visit on occasion. I don’t know about any cult. ‘Children of Twilight’? That sounds crazy. Whistler’s a nice man, Agent Savich, wouldn’t hurt a soul. I believe he sells cars over in Haverhill. Why do you want to see him?”

  “I want to talk to him about his cult you’ve never heard about,” Savich said.

  “I tell you I don’t know about any Children of Twilight cult. Don’t you government types have anything better to do than harass car salesmen? Yeah, that’s what he does—sells those fancy German cars. Caldicot Whistler has nothing to do with a cult. Who claimed he did?”

  Savich leaned forward a bit, his voice confiding. “Actually, Sheriff, the FBI knows just about everything we need to. I’m surprised that you, a law enforcement officer, haven’t bothered finding out about them, or think the FBI wouldn’t. On the other hand, you’ve been stuck in this valley a long time—don’t bother with TV or newspapers, right? Now, what’s Caldicot Whistler’s address?”

  “We got TV, newspapers, computers, even People magazine.” Sheriff Cole wanted to kill this asshole or at least hurt him bad, and it showed. He also wanted to scratch at the itchy rash around his middle because the heavy leather belt dug into his flesh. That didn’t help. As for the girl with all her red hair and white skin, her long fingers flirting with that SIG, he’d like to introduce her to other sorts of things he liked—a little bowling, a little love, a little pain.

  He wondered if she knew what to do with that powerful weapon so close to her fingers. His two deputies were more than likely already over at Kandra’s Kafe chowing down on “All the Tortilla Chips You Can Eat,” today’s special. When Doreen had called him, he’d almost not come by, thinking about all those chips and the big bean burrito waiting for him. He could always count on Kandra to come through with the food when his wife was in one of her moods.

  Stupid lost tourist who needed some hassling, that’s what he’d thought. And now this. Now he had two FBI agents on his hands, this big guy whose nose needed to be broken, and the woman, probably the guy’s girlfriend. He could just pull them behind the gas station, but it was too big a risk. The woman had already called the damned director.

  How could the FBI possibly know about Blessed and Whistler? He remembered that sheriff calling him about Blessed from somewhere in the mountains back in Virginia. He must have called the FBI. Damnation.

  The fed had asked him a question—oh, yeah, about Whistler. He said, the hot rage burning the air between them, “You’ll have to ask Blessed for Whistler’s address. I don’t know it. I never knew it, you got me?”

  “Not yet, but I’m beginning to think I probably will,” Savich said easily, and walked straight at the sheriff, making him hop to the side. Sherlock saw the flash of rage in the sheriff’s eyes when he realized he’d been outsmarted, and tried not to smile. They watched the sheriff walk inside the Quik Mart and lean close in to speak to Doreen. They waited. After only about a minute he came out, put sunglasses on his nose, climbed into his truck, and peeled out. She arched an eyebrow.

  Savich said, “Thanks for calling Director Mueller for me.”

  “You’re more than welcome. He was right there, as if he’d been waiting for me to call him.”

  “I must say, you sure got a hold of him fast. I’m impressed.”

  “And so you should be. We’re off to see Grace and Shepherd?”

  “Doreen said Grace wasn’t here either,” Savich said. “She could have been blowing me off—we’ll find out when we get to the Backmans’.”

  Savich stared after the black truck. “Do you know, I don’t think Sheriff Cole and I are going to be best friends.”

  Sherlock said, “He’s afraid of the Backmans, and he hates you all the way to his steel-tipped boots. He really wants to kick your butt, Dillon, big-time.”

  Savich quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do you think that might be fun?”

  “Yeah, for you.”

  Savich drove down Main Street, only two blocks long, past its short row of businesses, from the Intimate Apparel boutique to Higgins Bar on the corner, with its neon flashing Dos Equis signs, to Polly’s Dry Cleaners right next door. He stopped when he saw a little boy on his bike and asked him where the Backmans lived.

 
The boy, who was missing two front teeth, gave him a big grin and leaned close. “My ma doesn’t like me to go anywhere near where the spooks live,” he said, and pointed east.

  “Why do you call them spooks?”

  The boy said, “Everybody knows they’re spooks, but my ma says I’m not supposed to talk about them. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s scared of them.”

  “Why do you think that’s true?”

  The boy frowned over Savich’s left shoulder. “Whenever she and my dad are talking about them, they whisper.”

  “Got you. Do you ever see the Backmans in town? Blessed, Grace, Mrs. Backman?”

  “Miz Backman sometimes talks to Dolly down at Fresh Fish Filet—that’s our restaurant, you know. Ma doesn’t like to eat there, says the fish is off sometimes, whatever that means.”

  A gold mine of information. Savich said, “What do your parents do here?”

  “My dad—he’s Reverend Halpert; he’s the preacher at the First Pilgrims Baptist Church. He’s always saying we’re lucky to have more members than Father Michael at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Michael tells my dad he’s a heretic and laughs. Dad tells him he might be a heretic, but we have better potluck suppers. Catholics can’t make good potato salad, he tells Father Michael, and then he laughs too.”

  “Do the Backmans go to your church?”

  “No, they’re Catholics, but they donate money to us anyways. Lots, I heard my dad say.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Taylor.”

  “Well, Taylor, I’m Dillon Savich. You’ve been a big help. Go buy yourself an ice cream. I saw Elmo’s Thirty Flavors. Are they good?”

  “Oh, wow, thanks, mister. The triple-fudge chocolate’s the best.” The dollar bill disappeared in Taylor’s pocket and he’d pedaled halfway to the ice-cream shop by the time Savich slid back into the Camry. Taylor yelled over his shoulder, “Elmo’s really got thirty-three flavors, I counted them! Thanks again, mister!”