The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  Victor looked at them through pain-dead eyes. “You should be dead. All of you would be dead if it wasn’t for that girl Autumn. Who is Autumn? There wasn’t any little girl up there.”

  “You’re right, Autumn wasn’t nearby,” Sherlock said. “But it doesn’t really concern you now, Victor.”

  Victor tried to rise, hissed in pain, and fell on his side. They heard him whisper, “Lissy wanted to go to Montana. I guess that’s not going to happen now.”

  Cully and Bernie lifted him, each of them with a shoulder under his arms. He was crying and moaning, and he left a trail of blood on the rocky ground. Sherlock didn’t care what he said; she was too worried about Dillon. Lissy could still be out there, and it was Sherlock’s fault. She could have taken her down, should have, but she couldn’t bring herself to shoot that young girl in the back. She’d let her focus slip for that instant of time, and Lissy had been so fast, moved in a blur, all of it unexpected, and then Sherlock had fired at her, but only a wound, maybe not even a bad one. Dillon could be dead because—Sherlock shook her head. No excuses. She’d screwed up royally, put all of them in danger. She hadn’t done her job.

  If it hadn’t been for Autumn, Victor would have killed Dillon. “Autumn,” she whispered, vaguely aware that Victor was cursing and crying, both together, “thank you for our lives.”

  “Sherlock, you guys all right?”

  Savich came limping through the trees. He was almost whole. Good enough. She gave him a huge smile.

  Victor stopped cold. He yelled, “Where’s Lissy? What did you do to Lissy?”

  Savich looked at the young man’s ravaged face, at the soul-eating fear in his eyes. He said, “She’s gone, Victor.”

  Victor raised his face to the darkening sky. “Lissy! Oh, God, Lissy, you can’t die, you can’t!” He wept like a lost soul from hell.

  73

  PEAS RIDGE, GEORGIA

  Whistler looked down at her, and Ethan took his chance. He threw himself at Whistler, hurled him against the wall. His gun went skidding across the floor.

  “Autumn, untie me!”

  Autumn fell to her knees beside her mother and began to work at the knots. Joanna had to watch Ethan and Whistler trade blows until finally she pulled free. Joanna staggered to her feet and pushed Autumn behind her. She wanted to help Ethan, but she’d seen him fight. He didn’t need her.

  Whistler was stronger than Ethan had thought, but he had no real chance. Ethan had rage on his side, rage so deep it resounded in the most primitive part of him. He wanted blood. He staggered Whistler with a kick to his chest and managed to grab his head between his hands. He pounded his head against the white wall. He didn’t stop even when he saw smudges of red against the stark white, heard Whistler moaning.

  “No!” Theodore Backman stumbled off the high dais, fell to his knees. “No!” he yelled again and pointed a long finger toward the two men. He turned to look at his granddaughter, that precious little girl he had waited for to be the future of his family. He felt a searing pain in his chest, slowly fell onto his side. He sucked in air, trying to breathe.

  Ethan smashed Whistler’s head a final time against the wall and released him. Whistler slid down the wall, leaving his blood to streak in bizarre patterns, as if painted on by smudged fingers.

  Ethan stood over him, sucked in air, and tried to quiet his rage. He turned to see the old man lying on the beautiful rug, his legs drawn up. He was awake and staring at Ethan. “You killed Caldicot?”

  “I doubt it.” He did not say whether he’d tried. Ethan turned to Autumn and Joanna. “Are you all right?”

  Autumn nodded as Joanna hugged her close, smoothed her hand over her daughter’s hair. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay now. We’re all right, Ethan. You?”

  Theodore Backman called out, sitting up on the floor now, his hands outstretched to Autumn. “Autumn! My precious grandchild, you will reach the stars with me, you will conquer the heavens. Come here, child, come to your grandfather.” He turned his head slowly toward the door. They stared at it, watched it open slowly.

  There stood Blessed, his dark eyes burning bright with anger.

  Theodore yelled, “Blessed, my son. Quickly, the sheriff and Joanna!”

  But Ethan didn’t look at him. He kept his head down and bulled ahead at Blessed, throwing himself as hard as he could into his stomach, sending Blessed back through the open door and hard against the hallway wall. Blessed moaned with pain as the dressing on his shoulder turned red with blood. But he slammed his elbow into the back of Ethan’s head, sending him staggering to his knees.

  Joanna flew at Blessed, knocked her own head into his chest just as Ethan had done. Blessed grabbed her neck and jerked her upright, but Joanna wouldn’t look at him. “It doesn’t matter.” Blessed struck her hard in the jaw. Joanna went down.

  “No!”

  Blessed came running back into the room just as Autumn landed against him. She screamed at him and pummeled her fists into his stomach. Blessed grabbed her, shook her.

  Autumn looked up and stared at him. He whimpered, deep in his throat, and fell backward. He hit the wall behind him and slowly slipped to the floor, unmoving.

  “Mama!” Autumn ran into the hall, fell to her knees, and shook her mother’s shoulders, lightly tapped her face, crying, begging her to wake up.

  Ethan was at their side in an instant. He gathered Joanna up in his arms and rocked her. They turned as one to see Theodore Backman stagger toward them. He yelled, and his voice echoed in the small space, like Moses calling out from the mountaintop, “You have failed me, Autumn. You are not worthy to carry on my name. You are like your common mother, of no use at all. I disavow you as I disavowed your father!”

  He raised his gun and fired.

  The bullet struck Autumn in the chest.

  74

  PALMERTON COMMUNITY HOSPITAL

  TWENTY MILES EAST OF PEAS RIDGE

  It was a miracle she’d survived the transport, Joanna told Savich, but she had. She’d survived two hours of surgery and was still alive when Savich and Sherlock got to the hospital the next morning, Savich on crutches. He ignored the pull of the newly sewn stitches on his thigh, and he ignored the constant hurt too, now, in the face of Autumn’s dying.

  Ethan had told the hospital staff he and Joanna were married, he’d explained to Savich on his cell when their FBI helicopter landed at Ricketts Field, only five miles from the hospital, so there would be no question he and Joanna could remain with Autumn in the ICU.

  Ethan had called in a huge favor and gotten a medevac helicopter to pick them up in the clearing by the barn. He’d told Sherlock, his voice too calm—numb, really—that Peas Ridge Chief of Police Annie Parkes and all six of her deputies had arrived to deal with Theodore and Blessed Backman, and with Caldicot Whistler, all of them still alive, just as the medevac helicopter arrived. He’d told her about Kjell, about the people who’d stayed hidden when the violence had erupted, and about those who couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He told her to look for a fresh grave when it was light again.

  Savich and Sherlock looked at Autumn through the open curtain of the ICU cubicle, her pale little face very still, both her impossibly small wrists tethered to IVs, an oxygen mask on her face. She looked terrifyingly fragile, and Savich hated it. He kept talking to her in his mind, telling her over and over that she would pull through this, that he’d introduce her to Sean and she could be his big sister and boss him around. He told her he wanted to see her smile, just for him, told her about Astro, how when she was well, she and Sean could throw a Frisbee for him, and how he’d lick her mouth if she wasn’t careful.

  He never heard a whisper of her voice, never felt even a shadow of her. He prayed somehow she would hear him. He felt he had to keep talking, since there was nothing else he could do. And he wondered again and again how a small being like that could survive a bullet to her chest.

  It was a good sign, an ICU nurse told them, that she was breathing on her own a
nd didn’t need a respirator anymore.

  Dr. Maddox, Autumn’s thoracic surgeon, fresh from a few hours’ precious sleep, followed Ethan and Joanna out of the cubicle. He said to them, “I won’t lie to you, like I told you, it was close, but she came through surgery like a champ”—a lie, but Dr. Maddox wasn’t about to tell her parents he’d nearly lost her. “She’s a strong little girl.”

  A sheriff and two FBI agents, he thought. At least he could leave it to them to sort out how it was that a seven-year-old girl got herself shot in the chest. He hadn’t paid much attention to all the wild talk he’d heard about it. There hadn’t been time for that. He touched his hand to Joanna’s arm, shook Ethan’s hand. “The two of you can stay, but I’ll have to ask the agents here to keep it short. We have an ICU to run. Try not to worry too much, either of you, it will do no one any good. She’s in good hands. I’ll be in the hospital if she needs me.”

  “She’s so small,” Sherlock whispered. “She looks smaller than Sean.” She turned in to him. Savich stroked her back as she sucked in a light breath, holding back tears that stung his eyes. He swallowed. He remembered his father telling him everyone expected the man to be strong, no breaking down, and in his opinion that just sucked. The memory almost made him smile. He said to Joanna and Ethan, “I’ve called her more times than I can count. She’s—not there.”

  Joanna’s voice was a thread. “Or maybe she’s just not feeling strong enough. That could be it—sure it could. One of the ICU nurses told me she’s got a long way to go to get well again….” Her voice fell away.

  Joanna and Ethan went back into the cubicle, taking their place beside the narrow bed, Savich and Sherlock behind them, standing at the end of the bed. The same nurse, Elaine Amos, came in. They watched her take Autumn’s blood pressure. She paused, straightened, and said to them, “Look, I’ve seen people die, and I’ve seen some miracles too along the way, and with Autumn, I feel it here”—she touched her fingertips to her heart—“I know she’ll make it. All of us here want to bring her through this. What happened to your leg?”

  Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “He got shot.” She saw Elaine’s eyes go wide, briefly, but she didn’t care. If this hospital was true to form, gossip was already rife now that two FBI agents had come running in, one of them on crutches. If they only knew. She wanted to touch Autumn’s face, to feel the warmth of that small child’s flesh, but Joanna’s head was close to her child’s, and she was lightly stroking her fingertips over Autumn’s cheek.

  Elaine said, “Look, guys, give me a minute with her, all right?” A final kiss, a final touch, and the four of them left Autumn’s cubicle, Joanna looking over her shoulder at her daughter, her face so pale it looked bloodless.

  Ethan said, “You should know, Savich, Theodore Backman died soon after he reached the hospital, a massive heart attack.” He slammed his fist against his palm. “It was too easy for that perverted old man. Blessed, last I heard, is unresponsive—catatonic, they called it. They’ve moved him to a secured psych ward, where we’ve got him isolated and under guard anyway. As for Mrs. Backman, she’s six rooms down the hall, raving and chanting, mad as a hatter. And Caldicot, that psycho is still in Chief Parkes’s jail at Peas Ridge.” He paused a moment, turned back, looking through the open curtains at the nurse bending over Autumn, fiddling with one of her IV lines. He said, his eyes never leaving Autumn’s face, “Chief Parkes found the fresh grave, fifty feet behind the barn. I’m glad they did. At least the two people they found can go home now.”

  Savich’s cell phone played Eric Hummer’s “Milwaukee Blues.” What now, Sherlock wondered, and wished she could rip the phone out of Dillon’s hand and throw it out the window. But of course she couldn’t. Damned duty, she thought.

  Savich flipped his cell closed after a couple of minutes. He motioned the three of them out of the ICU. “Ethan, Joanna, you know Sherlock and I flew here directly from North Carolina. We have to go back to Washington, D.C. Mr. Maitland says the media’s going nuts, he admits he’s got a truckload of questions for us himself, and Director Mueller, even though he understands the situation with Autumn, has asked us to come back until everything can be sorted out. I don’t want to leave—”

  Ethan pulled Joanna to his side and squeezed. “We’ll be here. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  Sherlock touched her fingers to his shoulder, then to Joanna’s. Silent, praying, Savich thought. He looked down at her face, at the pain in her eyes. He said, “Listen, all of you. Elaine told us she’ll make it. She promised us a miracle.”

  Epilogue

  Five days later

  Savich stood in the doorway of Autumn’s private room on the second floor. He and Sherlock had just arrived at Palmerton after five long days of worry. The sun poured through the bank of windows, setting the pale yellow walls of her room aglow. She was still hooked up to IVs, but there were no longer oxygen clips in her nose, and he saw a bit of color on her cheeks. She was so small in that narrow hospital bed, so very thin. But she’d lived; she would make it. Soon she would be whole again.

  She was asleep, her breathing even and soft. He watched Joanna lean down and kiss her cheek, then Ethan kiss her forehead. They walked hand in hand out of the room, both looking pale and drawn, their eyes still shadowed from days of worry and lack of sleep, but both of them were smiling.

  Ethan shook Savich’s hand, hugged Sherlock. “Autumn should sleep for a while now. Both Joanna and I are running on low. How about some coffee—and tea for you, Savich—in the hospital cafeteria? It’s not bad at all, kept us alive these past days. I like the cane. Is that an eagle’s head on it?”

  The walls of the Palmerton hospital cafeteria were sunshine-yellow, the chairs and tables alternately bright green and blue. You couldn’t help but feel your spirits lift a little when you walked in.

  Joanna said, “We’re very glad you guys are back. Even though we’ve spoken every day, it’s wonderful to see you, to have you here.” She drew in a deep breath. “It’s been—difficult.” Then she smiled up at Ethan, squeezed his hand.

  Ethan said, “She’s been improving steadily. Every single day, she’s better and better. Only a couple of minor setbacks, a fever that scared the spit out of us, but it passed quickly. Dr. Maddox came out of her room this morning and he was beaming and did a little skip.” Without thought, Ethan leaned over and touched his forehead to Joanna’s. “We are very, very lucky,” he said, and kissed her cheek.

  Joanna gave them a brilliant smile. “Five very long days, but they’re in the past now. You should hear Nurse Elaine talk about her miracle.”

  Ethan said, “We’ve seen some of the hoopla on TV about Victor Nesser. What’s happening?”

  Sherlock said, “The media frenzy over Victor and Lissy is still playing itself out, mostly in the tabloids now, and a couple of the talking-head cable networks. More speculation than fact now, shrinks and legal analysts using it to get airtime. There’s been nothing new in the past day and a half to rev them up again, thank God.”

  Joanna said, “We saw an interview with that bank security guard, Buzz Riley, on one of the major stations. He was something, a very funny man.”

  Savich nodded. “Buzz called us after the show aired. He was pumped up, said he’d always wanted to be on TV, wondered if he’d get some calls from Hollywood.”

  Joanna laughed. It sounded a bit rusty, but it was still a laugh, no shadows beneath it. “Do you know I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he made it into the next Die Hard movie, maybe as Willis’s newest sidekick?”

  Ethan said, “He sure sang your praises, Savich, about what you did at the Georgetown bank.”

  Savich said, “Buzz is very glad to be back home. He says water and sun are okay with him, but since no one could ever tell if he had a tan or not, why bother?” Savich shook his head, smiling.

  Ethan rose, held up his hand. “All right, guys, don’t talk about the good stuff until I get back. I’m going to get us some drinks.”

&n
bsp; Sherlock saw Joanna watch Ethan make his way to the buffet line along the back wall of the cafeteria. He turned and smiled brightly at them, gave Joanna a little wave.

  It was hard for Joanna, Savich saw, to turn away from Ethan, but she finally managed it. She said, “Dillon, tell me first how your leg’s doing.”

  He did exactly what he always did when he was hurt—he simply shrugged, said he was fine.

  Joanna said, “All right, then, I can see you’re not the one to ask. So you tell me, Sherlock, how’s his leg?”

  Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “The stitches come out in a couple of days. There wasn’t too much muscle damage, so Dillon limps less every day, needs fewer pain pills. The doctor said he could begin some gentle workouts the end of next week.”

  “How’s Sean doing?”

  “He saw his father moving around on crutches. Since Dillon made light of it, Sean wasn’t worried or scared about it. He decided it was cool. When Dillon graduated to a cane, Sean got himself a long stick and tried to walk like his father. He got his first taste of reporters a couple of days ago. They ambushed the three of us at Danby Park where we play Frisbee. Picture this, Dillon’s sitting under a tree watching me throw a Frisbee to Sean, then Sean throws the Frisbee to Astro, grinning at the reporters over his shoulder, and all those people with their microphones and cameras surround him, looking for a big dose of cute.” She smiled. “I fear Sean’s a ham. Like Buzz, he loved it. Like Buzz, he’s a natural.”

  “I wanted to grab him up and limp away,” Savich said, “but to be honest about it, the crews were great with him. You don’t often see a rabid pack of newshounds charmed like that, but Sean did it. He made it on most every news station that evening, even on one of the major network stations.”