KnockOut ft-13

by Catherine Coulter

  Jumbo was silent for a moment. “That’s Buzz Riley, right? Retired cop?”

  “Yes.”

  A pause, then, “I spoke to him. He told me that girl was going to kill you too. Jeez, Savich, that was a hell of a risk you took.”

  It beat lying there watching Buzz get his brains blown out, Savich thought, and knew his own brains had been on the line too. He said what he’d said a dozen times already, the last time to Director Mueller himself: “I had no choice and no time. I had to act.” Savich could hear Hardy typing on his laptop.

  “Oh, yeah, I checked the hospital. The girl you kicked in the gut— of all things, you injured her duodenum, and maybe her pancreas, something the doctors only see in auto accidents. My friends at the hospital tell me she’s in surgery. She’ll probably make it, but she’s not going to be a happy camper for a while. You know her name?”

  Of course they knew all the robbers’ names now. “Good try, Jumbo. You know I can’t give that out yet.”

  “I hear the FBI agents who’d just pulled up outside the bank brought down the fourth bank robber as he was fleeing. That right?”

  It was, but Savich said, “We’re still sorting everything out. I’m sure you can get all the details from Mr. Maitland.”

  More typing on the laptop, then, “Hey, Savich, I wouldn’t be surprised if a bank customer sues you for endangering his life.”

  He wouldn’t be surprised either, Savich thought as he punched off his cell, given the deadening fear and the human need to blame someone when bad things happen. And the robbers were all dead except for the teenage girl. As he pulled on his jacket, he remembered the hundred-dollar bills scattered over the bank floor, some of them float-Ing on the rivulets of blood from Jennifer Smiley’s neck. He closed his office door, saw Sherlock, and went to her.

  “Good move with your cell,” she said, and hugged him. He held her carefully, a habit now, since her surgery two months before. “I’ve told everyone else, but not you, Dillon. We were on the road in a minute, no longer. We heard everything on the speakerphone. Riley told me the girl was going to kill you, Dillon, she was just going to shoot you and dash out of the bank, laughing.” She hugged him tighter.

  Agent Ruth Warnecki said, “He’s alive, Sherlock, and I’d say he deserves a pizza.” She paused, turned to stare hard at Savich. “Sherlock might be used to you playing fast and loose with your hide, but I’m not. I’m asking you real nice, Dillon, don’t do that again, okay?”

  He managed a grin. “Do you know I was at the bank to check on Sean’s college fund? There was some sort of entry error that I couldn’t deal with online.” He shook his head, laughed at life’s improbabilities. He said, “You’re right, Ruth, a pizza sounds good.”

  AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK that night, Mr. Maitland called to tell him they’d found the getaway car, the image captured by ATM cameras. It was a black Dodge 2008 Grand Caravan, with swivel seats and a backseat TV. It had been stolen four days earlier from a Cranston, Virginia, dentist, and left on a side road outside Ladderville, Maryland. There was no sign of the driver but lots of fingerprints.

  “I guess they should call it the Gang of Five then, since someone had to be driving that van,” Savich said.

  “Let’s just hope this bozo’s prints are in the system.”

  2

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Thursday night, three days later

  The first time she spoke to him was at midnight.

  It’s you, it’s really you. I can see you. Can you hear me?

  It was a child’s voice, high, excited, with light bursts of breathing.

  He heard her voice at the edge of sleep. At first he didn’t understand, thought maybe it was Sean, but then he saw her—the shape of her small head, then a tangle of long, dark brown hair, and he thought, Yes, it’s me. Who are you?

  I can really see you, just like I could see my dad. He died, you know. Your name’s Dillon and I saw you standing in front of that bank on TV, and listened to the TV people tell what you did.

  At first Savich didn’t know what she was talking about. You saw me on TV?

  Oh, yes. I told my mama you were a hero. You took care of those bank robbers, made them real sorry. She said you were crazy, said what if there’d been kids in the bank?

  Raise your face so I can see you. Who are you?

  She shoved back her hair and looked straight at him. I’m Autumn.

  Autumn. Now he saw her small, triangular face, her child-white skin, beautiful eyes, a lighter blue than Sherlock’s, framed with absurdly long lashes, freckles across the bridge of her nose, but there was something wrong, something—Can you see me, Autumn?

  Oh, yes. You’re all dark.

  How did you get to me?

  I haven’t tried to call anyone since my dad died. Last night I thought real hard, and tried to picture your face, but you wouldn’t come. Then tonight, I saw you in my mind standing in front of the bank, and there you were. I think you’re rich, Dillon, real rich.

  No, I’m not rich.

  You’re inside-rich and you’re wide open, at least tonight you are. Mama’s afraid, she’s always afraid; well, I’m afraid too, since I’m the one who saw them. Mama said we have to hide real good or they’ll find us. She jumps out of her skin whenever anybody comes close. I do too. They’re real scary, Dillon. I told her I’d ask you what to do. Mama started to shake her head at me like she always used to do, then she didn’t.

  I told her I might know if they get close, and I think she believes me. I don’t believe me, though. I’m just not sure about anything now. Everything’s so scary after Bricker’s Bowl.

  Your mama’s afraid of something you saw? What did you see, Autumn?

  I can’t, I can’t—Fear knifed through her voice. He was afraid she’d hyperventilate.

  Autumn, it’s okay. No, don’t fade out. Stay with me. Can you tell me where you are?

  Mama says it’s hard to hide because of the Internet, but I don’t think Messed needs the Internet. She says that’s why we’re in the boondocks. It’s nowhere, she says, and maybe they won’t find us here, maybe even Messed won’t find us here. It’s real pretty, lots of trees, and the mountains are everywhere, all around you, and they go on forever, but today was real hot. She hopes Uncle Tollie can help us, but he isn’t home yet, so we’re waiting for him. He knows people like you, that’s what Mama says.

  Can you tell me who’s trying to find you, Autumn? This man named Messed? Is he from Bricker’s Bowl?

  Yes, his name’s Blessed. It’s a neat name, but he’s creepy. Mama says that’s because of what he’s like. I think that house in Bricker’s Bowl is creepier. That’s where they buried—no, Mama said I can’t ever ever tell because it sounds too crazy and nobody would believe us. At least we have some money. Mama found it in Daddy’s safe deposit box. It’s not just Blessed, Dillon, it’s all of them. What do you think we should do?

  First, tell me where you are. What’s your last name?

  Her small face blurred. I can’t—

  Yes, you can. Autumn! No, wait—

  He heard a distant echo of her voice, as if she were calling him from inside a well. I can’t see you!

  It’s all right. Just relax and try again.

  Her voice was more distant now, only a whisper, her face a blur. I’ll try to call again so you can tell me what to do.

  But who are you? Where are you?

  The little girl was gone, like someone flipped a switch. Where there had been bright color and light and a child so close he could touch her, there was now only empty blackness and his racing thoughts. Savich kept calling to her, but she was gone. It was evidently only a one-way circuit. She hadn’t connected psychically with anyone except her father, now dead, so she would have to learn to control the psychic communication with him. Autumn and her mother were in big trouble, and here he was helpless, since he had no clue who she was or where she was.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Her name was Autumn and she wa
s in the mountains, probably in the Appalachians, he hoped close by, maybe somewhere in Virginia. Tomorrow he’d make some calls to police chiefs and sheriffs he knew throughout the state, have them call others. She and her mom were new to town. That would help. Uncle Tollie? He’d throw his name in the computer, see what popped up. Retired? What was his real name? Surely not Tollie. He sighed, closed his eyes, and tried once again to call her.

  No answer. No flicker of an image.

  He lay there, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the dark ceiling. Did Autumn’s mother really accept that she had this amazing gift?

  Sherlock’s sleepy voice sounded against his neck. “Dillon? Why are you awake?”

  He settled her face against his shoulder, kissed her nose. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

  3

  TITUSVILLE, VIRGINIA

  Saturday evening, two days later

  Ethan Merriweather felt hopelessness sweeping over him like a tsunami. It didn’t help that the sky was blacker than the bottom of a cauldron tonight—no moon, no stars, only drooping, bloated clouds pressing down on the thick-treed hills like so many black hats. His grandpa would have poked his arm and told him he was sounding like a long-haired poet again. His grandpa would have said it with a sort of Scottish lilt in his heavily accented voice, a spoken song, Ethan had always thought, one of his thick, white eyebrows arched higher than any eyebrow Ethan had ever seen. He’d practiced for hours in front of a mirror but never achieved his grandfather’s lift.

  He knew it was time to call it a day. Or a night.

  Where are you?

  Ethan’s cell screamed out “Blood on Your Hands,” a grinding death- metal rock ringtone that spiked his brain better than a double espresso. He picked it up and said right off, his heart speeding up a bit, “Tell me she’s been found.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff, still no sign of her,” said Ox, his senior deputy. “I called to tell you the three rangers from Thunder Ridge district are ready to call it quits for the night, said they can’t do anything more now that it’s dark.”

  “Yeah, they’re right. I’ll call Faydeen, have her round everybody else up, tell them to go home. We’ll pick it up tomorrow morning. How you feeling, Ox?”

  “I’m hunkered down beside you in a swamp of worry, Sheriff. Even my evening infusion of Turkish tar didn’t hold me up long.”

  Ethan said, “There’s lots of room in my swamp, so welcome aboard. See you in the morning.”

  “You going to go home too, Sheriff?”

  “Yeah, to feed the critters, then I’ve got to see Mrs. Backman in town, let her know what we’re doing. I’m nearly finished driving the perimeter of the wilderness.” Again. “Damnation, where is she, Ox? We’ve covered all the roads, the rangers have checked and rechecked the trails and campsites without a sign of her, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of her in or out of town. Nothing more to do until it’s light again. Go home to Belle, Ox.”

  “Yeah, my sweetheart and I deserve big steaks, then we’ll have a nice run in the woods.”

  Three more miles, Ethan thought as he punched off his cell, and he’d hit Rural Route 10, a winding two-lane country road that would take him to Highway 41, and back into Titusville.

  Titus Hitch Wilderness. He’d grown up here, knew every inch of the four thousand and fifty-four acres. He’d climbed the highest peak, called Titus Punch, many times and fished since he was four years old alongside his grandpa in the Sweet Onion River that flowed below the Appalachian Trail. He’d eaten tuna-salad sandwiches on Sod Drummer’s Ridge, a jagged, toothy line of rocks that cut the wilderness in half, and painted the endless stretches of tree-carpeted hills in every season. He’d explored the treacherous gullies, like knife gashes made by pissed-off giants, his grandpa had said, spent nights in almost all the caves. He’d even run through it in hundred-mile ultramarathons every year until a torn ACL, nearly rehabbed now, had brought him down on the last one the year before.

  Hut none of his knowledge had helped. His birthplace, his sanctuary, had turned a deaf ear. He felt itchy and cold, and the creep of fear for the single little girl. At night the trees and hills seemed to draw in around you here, smothering all light, like the devil closing his black fist.

  He hadn’t found one seven-year-old little girl, missing since this morning. He didn’t want to let the thought in, but he couldn’t help it. She could be lying somewhere hurt, unable to call for help, or even dead. Someone could have lured her away, maybe even killed her, buried her, or left her for the animals.

  He hated it.

  He punched in the sheriff’s office number and got Faydeen. She sounded tired, and no wonder, but he knew she’d make sure every searcher was thanked and asked to start up again in the morning. He started to call Gerald’s Loft, the B-&-B where the mother and child had been staying, but disconnected. No, better to tell her everything in person. He had some questions for her.

  Ethan had seen her and the little girl around Titusville for the past week—summer visitors, he’d been told when Mavis had introduced them in the checkout line in Blinker’s Market a couple of days ago. She hadn’t met his eyes. She’d backed her cart away. For some reason he couldn’t figure, she didn’t want to be anywhere near him. Because he was a man? Or because he was the sheriff? A short vacation, that’s all he’d gotten out of her. He realized he didn’t really know a thing about her, since he’d been so anxious to get on the road and find the child. She’d handed him a photo, not meeting his eyes. “I was taking a nap. Autumn was playing with her dolls—the three princesses, she calls them. I only slept for an hour, not more, I’m sure of that.” He heard fear and soul-rotting guilt in her voice.

  “When I woke up and called her, she didn’t answer. She wasn’t here.” Her voice hitched, and she abruptly rose and began pacing the small sitting room. “She simply wasn’t here in the room, she wasn’t playing in the hallway. I ran downstairs to Mrs. Daily, and she hadn’t seen her, but of course she’s in and out all the time. She and I went out to ask everyone, but no one had seen her.” She still didn’t meet his eyes, and why was that? He couldn’t help wondering. “When we couldn’t find her, I came to you.”

  “You should have come to me immediately,” Ethan said, angry with her because she’d wasted valuable time. She shook her head, still not looking at him. He thought about black bears and bobcats and the four-thousand-plus acres of wilderness, dense with oak, hickory, maple, and pine trees, all clustered close together. He thought about the ditches and gullies and the Sweet Onion River, deep enough to drown an adult, and he thought of one little girl, alone and lost, and turned it off. It wouldn’t help. She said then, “Autumn’s sick. She hasn’t had her pill today. She’ll be fine, but she does need the medication. Today and tomorrow.” And she shut her mouth, shook her head. He wanted to ask her exactly what was wrong with her daughter, but he saw tears sheen her eyes, her hands clenching and unclenching, and didn’t push it. He asked other questions, but she couldn’t tell him anything useful. Or she wouldn’t; he really didn’t know which it was.

  It was time to get serious with her.

  Of course the little girl didn’t have to be in the wilderness. She could be anywhere, but he didn’t think so, or someone would have spotted her. They’d searched every building and house in Titusville. No sign of her. And that left the wilderness. She had to have a pill today and one tomorrow. He wished he’d asked Mrs. Backman what was wrong with her.

  Had she wandered off? And that brought him back to whether someone had lured her away.

  She’s dead.

  No, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow himself to think that yet. Not yet.

  It was hot during the day, but now at nearly nine o’clock at night, when summer darkness finally hit, the temperature began its nightly drop to the forties. It was getting colder by the minute. Ethan turned on the Rubicon’s heater, felt the rush of hot air on his face.

  When he pulled into the driveway of his 1940s bu
ngalow, tucked into a mess of pine trees a half-mile outside Titusville, the first things he heard were Lula’s and Mackie’s loud, desperate meows punctuated by Big Louie’s ear-piercing bark.

  He loaded up the cats’ food bowls while both of them weaved frantically between his legs, talking nonstop. He fed his patient Big Louie, then took him for a quick walk. Then, just eight and a half minutes after he’d arrived, he drove into Titusville to report to Autumn’s mom that they hadn’t found her daughter yet. He had to get more information out of her, like what was wrong with Autumn, and where her damned husband was.

  He hated it.

  4

  EVERY LIGHT AT Gerald’s Loft was on. It had quickly become the search center, where Ox had patiently handed out assignments, gathered reports, and called Ethan periodically.

  Inside, Ethan saw Gerald Ransom and Mrs. Daily, brother and sister, refilling the giant coffee urn, laying out heaps of Oreos donated by Mavis at Blinker’s Market. There were still a good two dozen people wandering around the Victorian entry hall with its dark paneled walls and florid red cabbage-rose wallpaper, and in the sitting room across from the reception area, loaded with so many knickknacks that Ethan’s mom always said dancing on water might be easier than dusting that room without breaking anything.

  Pete Elders of Elders Outdoor Gear spotted him, and slowly everyone turned to him, many of the faces lived-in, seamed, and weathered, all with the same expression—hope. Conversation died.

  Ethan simply shook his head and saw their collective hope dissolve. He thought the air felt suddenly heavier. He searched the group but didn’t see her.

  “Where is Mrs. Backman?” he asked Mrs. Daily, a large-boned, buxom woman, formidable in her man’s tie and black suit. She dwarfed her brother Gerald.

  “I sent her upstairs, Sheriff, before she passed out on the floor. The girl’s a mess. No wonder. I tried to feed her, but she threw up. She was out searching until Tommy Larkin hauled her back here.”