KnockOut ft-13

by Catherine Coulter

  He said, “Let me ask you, Lissy, would you come running if someone shot Victor? Or would you run away to save your own skin, like Jeff did to you?”

  “Sure, I’d come running for Victor, but that’s different. He’s not some stranger out to bring me down like you and these jerkface cops. Victor loves me. He’d do anything for me. I know him. He’s like the other half of me. He thinks things through, real careful, you know?” She paused a moment, and for a second she looked oddly vulnerable. “Mama said you got to take care of number one first, or number one might just die and then what did it matter about number two or number three, or anyone else? Mama always said Victor was too sweet. Sometimes he is sweet, but not always.” She shook her head, as if focusing herself again, and scuffed the toe of her sneaker into a mess of leaves at her feet. Her eyes flicked to the deputy. “I wondered what this little twerp was doing here in the woods. You knew we were close and you called the cops, didn’t you?”

  Pain flashed hot in his leg and he almost moaned with it. He’d never been shot in the leg before. It was like a searing knife was stuck in his flesh, deep and twisting now, that blessed numbing cold long gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Savich said, “You got me, Lissy. Are you ready to see what Victor thinks of me as your hostage? You know, that other agent isn’t really worth much at all, you could even let him go, no loss. He’s with Victor, right?”

  “Oh, sure, he’s with Victor. Me, I decided to do some reconnaissance. I was looking real hard at the back door of that dumpy house, praying for one of you to come strolling out, but no one did.”

  She was angry again and frowned at him, her gun steady on his chest. “You think you’re going to get out of this, big boy? Maybe you didn’t fire the shot that killed my mama, but you threw the gun to that damned security guard, and he shot her. He shot her in the neck! I saw it, saw all her blood spurt out. I saw her die!” Her hand was shaking again, and Savich waited, ready. “I’m going to kill him too. I wonder if my pretty boy Bernie has anyone who’ll care when he dies?”

  “Yes, he does, a wife and two small kids.”

  “Well, boo-hoo, the kids aren’t going to get a bedtime story from Daddy tonight. He’s one of you, out to bring me down. He’s the enemy. His wife won’t be sad for long. Mama told me after Daddy was out of the picture she had herself lots of fun.”

  She rubbed her palm across her chest. “You know, I can’t dance right now because of you. I don’t have stitches, they put in those staples. I don’t know how to get them out. Victor doesn’t like to look at them.” She studied him, then shrugged. “All right, Mr. Big Shot, you’ve earned yourself ten minutes. We’ll see what Victor has to say about you being our hostage. Get your hands off that deputy’s shoulder and stand up.”

  Savich slowly lifted his hand from the deputy’s chest. He’d had enough time and the bleeding had stopped.

  He had a chance.

  67

  SAVICH LOOKED AT HIS SIG from the corner of his eye, then looked at her closely, weighed his chances of diving for his gun, raising it, and shooting her. He figured his odds and realized it was a no-go. He couldn’t trust his leg.

  He said, “Let me get some pressure on my leg, okay? You don’t want me to bleed to death, do you? How could I walk you and Victor to safety?”

  She chewed on her lower lip. “All right, use your belt, that’ll do it.”

  Savich pulled off his belt and pulled it tight around his leg. He knew he’d been lucky, the bullet was in and out, torn flesh and muscle, not all that deep. He’d be in big trouble if the bullet had lodged in him. He tried to put weight on the leg and it held up. The pain was bad, throbbing hard. It didn’t matter, he had to move his leg, work it.

  “Now let’s get back to Victor. We gotta talk about you. Then I’ll say good-bye to poor Bernie with the two little kids. Then we gotta get our money. I’m thinking Victor and I should head out west, maybe Montana. What do you think?”

  “You and Victor don’t have the money with you?”

  “Mama hid most of the money in our house in Fort Pessel. When Victor and I went there, cops were all over the house so we couldn’t get to it.” He saw her hand shake from the memory. “Doesn’t matter. After I take care of you, we’ll go back and get it. It won’t be a problem—all those yahoos will be swarming down here looking for us. Then we’ll be set. Do you know how long it takes to drive to Montana?”

  “Three, four days.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. I don’t want to go fast, just sort of see all the tourist sights. Now, step back.”

  He did, and his leg held. He put his weight on it, moved it, tensed the muscles.

  “Back up six feet.”

  He backed up. The movement was good.

  He watched Lissy pick up his SIG, shove it into her wide belt with its big turquoise buckle. She waved her gun at him. He walked slowly, carefully, Lissy six feet behind him, not taking any chance he could reach her.

  He prayed they wouldn’t run into anyone. He didn’t want to see anyone else die.

  He knew Sherlock had to be planning something. He’d been gone too long.

  “You’re walking too slow. Move!” He limped faster between the thick trees.

  “You know, Bernie’s got a real good body, and he’s old, at least thirty. I’m thinking you’re even better. I was watching you pushing down on the deputy’s shoulder, and I really like your muscles. You look meaner than Bernie does too, like a guy who’s bashed some heads together. I like mean and hot. When I was thirteen, there was this biker dude, he was twenty and he was meaner than a gator, real bad, and so hot all the girls wanted him.” She stopped, frowned at the memory, shook her head. “I had sex with him once, but then he left. Victor was eighteen and I got him instead, took his virginity while I was thinking about my biker dude.

  “When I get you all settled down and tied up, I’ll see. Hey, you married? You got a wife who’ll miss you for maybe five minutes? You got little kiddies?”

  “No, I’m not married.”

  “That redheaded girl, she your partner? You screwing her?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to her before I blow her head off. I really like what she’s done to her hair. I’m thinking I want to go red, get me some curls like she has.” She fluffed her hair. “Think she’ll tell me how to get what she’s got?”

  “Probably not if she realizes you’re going to kill her. I mean, why should she?” Lissy Smiley was crazy and she was sixteen. He limped badly, even managed a big grimace of pain, which wasn’t all that much of a stretch.

  “I’ll bet you’re lying to me. You are screwing her, aren’t you?”

  “Nah. I don’t even like her much.”

  “Well,” Lissy said and laughed, “she a lesbian?”

  Savich didn’t say anything; he was listening. He heard something, a footfall. Was it Sherlock? Another deputy? He said quickly, to distract her, “About her hair, I’m thinking maybe she dyes it. But her eyebrows are a sort of dark red-brown, so maybe not.”

  Lissy laughed again, high and manic. “I’ll be sure to ask her. Okay, lover boy, move it. We’ve got to get back to Victor. Hey, she any good with a gun?”

  “Good enough.” His leg hurt bad, but he had it under control. Could he manage enough of his weight on the left leg and kick out with his right? He didn’t know. He knew if he tried and missed, he’d be dead.

  He made his limp impressive.

  “Wait, lover boy. Hold up a minute. I think I heard something. Maybe it’s that little redheaded partner of yours. That would be good.”

  68

  PEAS RIDGE, GEORGIA

  When the door closed behind him, Ethan whirled around, but Caldicot hadn’t come in.

  Ethan turned to see an old man sitting on an immense, beautifully carved golden chair that would have suited Queen Victoria. He had to be at least eighty. He looked frail and insubstantial, with wispy clumps of white hair on his head and a seam
ed face. All in all, he would have looked like a pleasant old geezer if not for his pinched mouth, small and mean. Despite the gentle voice, what Ethan saw was decade upon decade of pettiness and ill will toward others. The old man’s eyes were dark with intelligence, and with power, as he looked at Ethan. His body might be old, but his mind was fit. He wore a long white robe pulled together at his meager waist with a gold belt, like Whistler’s.

  “Good evening, Sheriff Merriweather. You will be fine in just another moment. The gas is a special compound that acts very quickly and dissipates just as quickly. Caldicot told me about the clothes both you and Joanna used to try to keep out the gas. Very creative. Caldicot was amused, except for the fact that you killed poor Kjell. And of course Blessed is injured. He is on the floor of my study, weeping. He is inconsolable. What did Autumn do to him, Sheriff?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Surely you must have an idea. You have been with the child and her mother for nearly a week now. I must know, Sheriff.”

  “Where are Joanna and Autumn?”

  “They are both fine at the moment. What did the child do to Blessed?”

  “Who are you, Whistler’s father?” Ethan had the mad desire to laugh.

  The old man didn’t say anything, continued to look at him, as if he was trying to figure something out.

  Ethan said, “Who are you?”

  “I, Sheriff Merriweather? Why, I am the Father, but I am not, however, related to Whistler. This is my home, and all those who reside here, for however long a time, are my children. They obey my wishes and in return are enlightened about powers beyond themselves.”

  “So Caldicot doesn’t run things around here?”

  “I’ll tell you what, Sheriff. It seems we need each other, and so I will answer your questions and then you will have no reason not to answer mine. Caldicot does not run things here. Caldicot is my fine first lieutenant. He fancied the name Master, and so I gave it to him. Sometimes, when he doesn’t realize I’m looking, he struts like he is the important one here, but he is not. I allow him his little conceits since he is something of a financial wizard, a blessing, since I find such things boring. He gathers our people from all over the world, and if he deems them worthy, he brings them here.”

  He raised a gnarled hand, pointed a thin finger at Ethan. His fingernails were long and curved inward. His old voice quaked with anger. “I have answered your questions, Sheriff. Now you will tell me what Autumn did to Blessed. I must know.”

  “I have told you, I don’t know what she did. As far as I know, she only looked at him, that was it.”

  “I don’t believe you. All of this—the death of Kjell, my poor Grace shot by your hand, my wife calling me, desperate because they were taking her to jail, and it’s all your fault, Sheriff. But Blessed, we cannot do without Blessed!”

  Ethan said slowly, “Well, if this doesn’t beat all—you must be Theodore Backman.”

  The old man gave him a regal nod. “Of course. Autumn is my granddaughter. I have lost two of my three sons, Sheriff. I will not lose my granddaughter as well. She appears to have more power than Blessed, even at her young age. She belongs to me, to my family, to Twilight. Her gift will draw the devout from all over the world. She will be revered. Under my tutelage who knows what she will become, the power she will have.”

  Ethan said, “Your wife said you died in a mugging in Reno some time ago. So, it didn’t happen. It was all a fiction so you would be free to set up this cult. It occurs to me you could have done this without dying.”

  “I had no choice. I had to die. The gangsters who ran the casinos decided they didn’t want to lose any more money to me, that I was stealing from them, though I played by their rules. The mugger was an assassin they sent to kill me, but I killed him instead. I was forced to cut all ties to Bricker’s Bowl because of those vermin.”

  The old man sighed.

  Ethan said, “So that’s when you decided to open this place? Children of Twilight? I’m wondering, Mr. Backman, why all the white? And the robes—you wish to be seen as a prophet? Or perhaps as something more than that?”

  “You speak so very simply, Sheriff, so unequivocally. You don’t know anything about it. All of this, it was a huge undertaking. I was not a young man, even then.”

  “And Caldicot? What does he get from this?”

  Theodore shrugged. “Shepherd and I found Caldicot one day in a strip mall in Huntersville, an out-of-the-way place we chose because we had to be careful. Caldicot was selling cars, can you believe that? He tried to con us. I admired his abilities, and we talked.

  “Two months later we bought the old tobacco farm some twenty miles down the road, using his mother’s name. It served for a while, but I feared the assassins would find me. We decided to build my beautiful temple. As you know, money is never an issue in any decision I make.

  “You know that my family is extraordinary. You’ve seen what Grace and Blessed can do.” Theodore’s face spasmed and his breathing hitched. He began to breathe too fast. He nearly rose out of his chair as he shouted at Ethan, “My poor Grace, my poor Shepherd! What have you done to my family?” Theodore’s thin chest heaved. For a moment, Ethan thought he was ill.

  After a moment, the old man settled himself back onto his throne. “Caldicot already believed he could read some people’s minds on occasion. When he saw Blessed and Grace he was, of course, astounded. He is an ambitious man, and I convinced him he could achieve whatever he wanted if he joined with me.

  “And so he did. Whistler is a Harvard man. He brings us us fervent, eager people, thrilled that I will teach them.”

  “Caldicot said you haven’t found another gifted person as yet.”

  “No, not as yet, but tomorrow Caldicot is leaving for Denver to see a gentleman who professes to foresee the future. We will see.”

  Ethan said, “So tell me again why people come to this big white concrete vault?”

  Theodore waved a veiny old hand. “Enough! Look around you, Sheriff. My sanctuary is magnificent. My holdings are large here, and my children can explore the woods with me as much as they wish. Why would they not wish to stay?”

  Ethan looked around the large, completely white room, the beautiful Impressionist paintings on the wall. Was that a Monet? There was a beautiful antique Persian carpet under the old man’s sandaled feet.

  It was a gem, this room, save for a ridiculous dais with its golden throne at the center. “You build underground to hide from the Mafia?”

  Theodore said, “In part. I feared I would not be so lucky twice. There were other reasons. When you are nearly beaten to death for being who you are, Sheriff, you think about what that means. I left the business of gathering earthly wealth to my sons, and I was free to read and to contemplate, to think about the gifts we Backmans have been given, and the history of others like us. I came to believe my nearly being beaten to death had a purpose—indeed, that I have a purpose, a mission, to find others like us and to build our own community away from our murderers, a community of the elect.”

  “ ‘A community of the elect’?” Ethan raised a brow. “I don’t see that Caldicot has any extraordinary powers. And all these people here, are they being taught something, or are they being used? You have gathered so much money and power by putting your sons to use that you can convince these people to do just about anything, at least for a while. How long do people stay here, Mr. Backman? How long before they realize there is nothing here for them?”

  “Are you quite done, Sheriff? I don’t care for your sarcasm. This is where I choose to be. I’m safe here, and I come and go as I please. That old barn is set a good half-mile from the county road, a road that few drive.”

  “If everyone here is free to leave, then why did Autumn see your family burying people in the family cemetery?”

  The old man’s eyes held a momentary look of regret, and then he let it go. “Two of our visitors—not worthy of us, a rare mistake by Caldicot—threatened to expose us unless we paid
them. It was a grave decision, not arrived at easily, but they were not as important as Twilight. I had to protect our secrecy, no matter what. Kjell had to remove them, unfortunately. It has been a difficult time for me, Sheriff.”

  “And just how did Grace and Blessed find Autumn?”

  “Ah, that was a simple matter for Caldicot. He is a clever man. He knew Joanna lived in Boston. All he had to do was look up my poor Martin’s obituary, and there was her maiden name. With that and what she and Autumn had told us, it required only a few well-placed phone calls to search out her family and friends, and her connection to Titusville, Virginia.

  “Now, Sheriff, I have answered your questions. I have an offer for you. You will leave here alive and the woman with you if she wishes, if you convince Autumn to remain with her family. She will not suffer; she will come to be happy here, I promise you. She will be with her family, and I always protect what is mine.”

  69

  SUDDENLY THEODORE LOWERED his face in his hands a moment and whispered through his fingers, “But I couldn’t protect poor Blessed.” He raised his head. “My firstborn is not possessed of an agile mind. It was foolhardy of him to follow you into the Titus Hitch Wilderness. He should have waited for a better time. But he could not conceive of failing—he and Grace had never failed before, at anything we asked them to do.

  “And now Grace is dead. The two of them were always so very close, in their minds, in their hearts.” Theodore raised his head. “You took part of my family, Sheriff; you owe me Autumn to pay for what you’ve done to me.”

  Ethan smiled at the profane old man. “You’re worried Blessed will never be able to stymie anyone again, isn’t that right, Theo?”

  Theodore slammed his fist onto his throne arm. “You will call me Father or Mr. Backman!”

  He sighed, then straightened, trying, Ethan thought, to look like a monarch rather than a pathetic old man. His hands fisted, making the veins ride high under his parchment skin.

  He said, pride bursting in his voice, “Whatever happens, it is my granddaughter who did it to him. With no direction from anyone, with no training, with no understanding at all, this little seven-year-old girl simply pulled it out of herself. Did she destroy his power? Wipe it out of him forever? I hope not. But this child is amazing. Blessed was helpless against her. She is her father’s daughter, my own granddaughter. Ah, Martin, another tragedy. I wonder what he would have achieved if he’d only remained with me in Bricker’s Bowl.”