The Maze

by Catherine Coulter

  “You look pretty fit, Agent Sherlock,” Captain Dougherty told her, and patted her good shoulder with a beefy hand. “We thought maybe you guys wanted to come upstairs to see about Marlin Jones’s condition.”

  “As of now I’m officially discharged and I wouldn’t miss it,” Lacey said, then looked up at Savich. “What about you, sir? Are you feeling better too? Not quite as violent as you were five minutes ago?”

  He wanted to wrap his hands around her skinny neck and squeeze. But it would have to wait. “Allow me the courtesy of processing my violent thoughts without further comment from you, Sherlock. Trust me, it’s to your benefit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re not going to collapse or anything, are you, Agent Sherlock?”

  “No, Ralph, I promise. I’m just fine.” She lasted until they got to the OR waiting room. No one could tell them anything. Jones was still in surgery. They settled in, Savich sitting next to Sherlock. She crashed two minutes later.

  “I think she’s out,” Savich said. “Tell you what, I’ll take her back to the hotel. Call me in the morning with Jones’s condition and when the doctors think we’ll be able to talk to him. Sherlock will be mad as hell to miss anything, but I doubt the dead could rouse her right now.”

  Ralph Budnack reached back and lightly shook her shoulder. She fell more onto Savich.

  “Yeah, she’s out like a light. Keep an eye on her, Savich. She scared the hell out of every cop in that warehouse, but she sure got the job done. Funny thing how her shooting him saved his life. If you hadn’t called a quick halt, the cops would have turned him into a pincushion. Hey, we’ll call tomorrow. Oh yeah, we got a lot on film.”

  Savich carried her into the hotel, over one wimpy protest. At least it was late and only one old guy thought Savich was a pervert, from the way he was licking his chops. Because Savich was worried about leaving her alone, he took her to his room, pulled off her shoes, and tucked her into his bed. He turned the light on low over by the desk by the windows. He called Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland, to tell him they’d caught the String Killer. He wasn’t about to tell his boss just yet that Agent Sherlock had nearly gotten herself killed because she’d lost all sense and turned into a cowboy, something the Bureau ferociously discouraged.

  Lacey slept through the night. She came abruptly awake early the next morning. Her eyes flew open, she realized her arm felt on fire, and yelped.

  “Good morning. You’re alive, I see.”

  She frowned up at him, trying to piece things together. “Oh, I’m in your room.”

  “No one should croak alone,” he said. “You look like hell. However, I got your clothes from your room. If you feel up to it, go bathe and change. When you come out, breakfast should be here. Lots of protein, lots of iron, lots of orange juice.”

  “What’s the orange juice for?”

  “To keep you from coming down with a cold.”

  He watched her swing her legs over the side of the bed. That hair of hers had come loose from the clasp and was rioting around her face—red hair that wasn’t really a carrot red or an orange red or even the auburn he’d thought, but a mixture of this color and that. She had lots of hair. Actually very beautiful hair. She looked totally different. He backed up a step. “I even put out some female stuff on the counter for you. If you need to shave your legs, forget it. I’ve only got one razor.”

  He was distracting her from the pain in her arm.

  “Oh yeah, Sherlock, before you go haring off to catch another killer, hold on just a second.” He disappeared into the bathroom, then came out a few moments later. “Here, take two pills. Doctor’s orders.”

  She knew the little blue one would take the wretched cutting pain away. Then maybe she could attack that breakfast Savich was talking about.

  “You’re eyeing those pills the way the cannibal would the sailor in the cooking pot.” He handed her the pills and a glass of water. She was fast getting them down.

  “Why don’t you just sit there until the meds kick in. I’ll call room service.”

  Forty-five minutes later, wrapped in a robe, bathed as well as she could with just one hand, Lacey was seated opposite Savich, a fork piled with scrambled eggs very nearly to her mouth. She sighed as she swallowed.

  He let her eat for three minutes, then said, “I didn’t tell Assistant Director Maitland that you’re an idiot, that in your first situation you didn’t follow orders, you taunted the suspect until he threw the knife at you, that you nearly got yourself whacked because of this damned obsession you have.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Cut the ‘sir’ stuff. He’ll find out soon enough. I still might kick your butt out of the Bureau. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen, Sherlock.” He’d said it all the previous night, but she might have been too dazed to get it all. He needed to pound it in.

  “I wanted to push him to the edge. I wanted him to tell me everything—the why of everything. I don’t know if I believe that maze story he told me about his father.”

  “It’s a fact easily checked. I’ll bet you Ralph has already got in calls to Yuma, Arizona. Tell me, Sherlock, is the obsession gone now that you took out the monster? Was your revenge sweet?”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Yes. They operated on him three straight hours. Chances are he’ll make it.”

  “There’s still a chance he’ll croak after we get it all out of him. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I don’t plan to let you near him with a weapon.”

  She sat back in her chair and sighed. “The pain medicine’s worked really well. The breakfast was excellent. Are you going to tell Assistant Director Maitland that I should be suspended or disciplined or cut off without pay, or what?”

  “I told you, I’m still chewing on that. But it just occurred to me this was the only reason you came into the Bureau in the first place, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded, chewing on a piece of toast.

  “And your undergraduate degree in Forensic Sciences and your Master’s degree in Criminal Psychology, these were all just for this one moment—the very slim chance that you’d get to confront this crazy?”

  “Yes. I never really believed I’d get him, not deep down, but I knew if I didn’t try, then I couldn’t live with myself. I wouldn’t have even had the chance at him if it hadn’t been for you. You made it possible. I thank you, sir.”

  “I don’t like you very much at this moment, Sherlock, so cut the ‘sir’ crap. If I had known what I was doing, I wouldn’t have done it. Just what would I have done if you’d bought the farm?”

  “I guess you would have had to call my dad. That wouldn’t have been much fun. Thank you for—”

  “If you thank me one more time for letting you play bait, I’ll wrap that sling around your throat and strangle you with it.”

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “You’re going back to Washington and I’ll handle things here.”

  She turned into a stone. “No,” she said at last. “No, you wouldn’t do that.” She sat forward. “Please, you’ve got to let me see this through to the end. You’ve got to let me talk to Marlin Jones. I’ve got to know why he killed my sister, why he killed all the other women. You told me I could talk to him.”

  “I’d be nuts to let you keep on with this case.”

  “Please, be nuts just for a little while longer.”

  He looked at her with a good deal of dislike. Actually he’d had no intention of pulling her out now. He tossed his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair. “Oh, what the hell. Why not? At least now he can’t hurt you and you can’t hurt him. You won’t try to shoot him, will you, Sherlock?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I’m an idiot to believe you. Tell you what. I’ll take you to the hospital. We’ll just see if you can keep yourself from ripping the guy’s throat out.”

  “I just want to know. No, I’ve got to know. Why did he kill Belinda?�
��

  “Did she have a salty tongue?”

  “She cursed, but nothing that would shock anybody, except my father and mother. Her husband loved her very much. Douglas will be pleased that this guy has been caught. As for my father, since he’s a judge, it’s one more criminal off the streets. But you know, Dad never really liked her because she wasn’t his real daughter. She’s my half sister, you see. My mother’s daughter from her first marriage. She was twelve years older than I.”

  “Did she ever bad-mouth her husband?”

  “No. Well, I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure. Twelve years make a big difference. She married her husband when I was sixteen. What difference does that make?”

  “So she’d only been married three years when she was killed?”

  “Yes. She’d just had her thirty-first birthday.”

  “If she didn’t curse or bad-mouth her husband in public, then Marlin wouldn’t have had any reason to go after her. You remember that he wouldn’t have touched you if you hadn’t let loose with all those curse words. Then you added the bad-mouth of your mythical husband for frosting on the cake. So it only makes sense that your sister did something to make him go after her. Either she really lost it and cursed up a storm within his hearing, or she put down her husband in his hearing. One or the other, Sherlock. What’s the most likely?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’ve got to talk to Marlin. He’s got to tell me.”

  “If he refuses to talk to you at all?”

  She was silent, staring down at a forkful of scrambled eggs that she’d sprinkled too much pepper on. “It’s odd. All the other women, no one admitted that they’d ever cursed a word in their lives or bad-mouthed their husbands. But they must have. You saw how Marlin came after me.”

  “You shocked my socks off when I listened to you let loose on Marlin in that hardware store.”

  “Good, because I knew you’d be the toughest to convince.”

  “As for the other women, evidently the family and friends were just trying to protect the good name of the dead. It happens all the time, and that makes it even more difficult for the cops.”

  “He’s got to tell me.”

  He said very gently, “You’ve got to bring it to a close, Sherlock.”

  She hated him for the gentleness, the kindness. He had no idea. He couldn’t begin to understand. She jerked up to look at him across the table. Her voice was as cold as Albany in January as she said, “Would you like another bagel?”

  He sat back, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re tough, Sherlock, but you still aren’t in my league. If you put cream cheese on the bagel, I’ll eat it.”

  16

  BOTH CAPTAIN Dougherty and Ralph Budnack were standing outside Room 423 when Savich and Lacey arrived at Boston Memorial Hospital.

  “You don’t look too bad,” Ralph said, peering down at her. “On the other hand, Savich doesn’t look too good. You haven’t been a pain in the butt, have you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why do you guys always stick together? I’m the one injured here, not Savich.”

  “Yeah, but Savich had to make sure you didn’t croak it at the hotel. He deserves combat pay.”

  “I slept all the way through, didn’t moan or whine or anything to disturb His Highness. He just had to order room service. How about Marlin Jones? Can we see him now?”

  Dr. Raymond Otherton, wearing surgical scrubs dotted with blood, said from behind her, “Not more than three at a time. He still isn’t all that stable. You the one who shot him?” At her nod, he said, “Well, you blew a big hole in his gut. Either you’re a bad shot, or you didn’t want to kill him.”

  “I didn’t want to kill him. Not yet.”

  “If that’s true, then go easy now, all right?”

  Marlin Jones was pasty white, his lips bluish. His eyes were closed. She could see purple veins beneath the thin flesh under his eyes. There was an IV going in each arm, a tube in his nose, and he was hooked up to a monitor. A police officer sat in a chair beside his bed, and another officer sat in a chair outside the hospital room.

  He was awake. Lacey saw his eyelashes flutter—dark, thick lashes.

  Captain Dougherty looked at Lacey, frowned just a moment, then said quietly, “You worked him, it’s only fair that you talk to him first. We’ve Mirandized him. He said he didn’t want a lawyer yet. I really pressed him on that, even taped it. So, everything’s aboveboard.”

  She looked at Savich. He gave her a long emotionless look, then slowly nodded.

  She felt her blood pound, a delicious feeling, her arm began to throb and that made her feel even better as she leaned down, and said, “Hello, Marlin. It’s me, Marty Bramfort.”

  He moaned.

  “Come on, Marlin, don’t be a coward. Open your eyes and look at me. You’ll be pleased to see that my left arm is in a sling. You did punish me, don’t you want to see it?”

  He opened his eyes and stared at that sling. “I’ve thrown a knife since I was a boy. It should have gone through your heart. You moved too fast.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t kill me either.”

  “I didn’t want to. I thought that a gut shot would make you feel really bad, make you suffer for a good long time. I want you to suffer until you yell with it. Are you suffering, Marlin?”

  “Yeah, it hurts like bloody hell. You’re not a nice woman, Marty.”

  “Maybe not. On the other hand, you’re not at all a nice man. Tell me, would you have murdered another five women if you’d managed to kill me?”

  He blinked rapidly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You killed Hillary Ramsgate. If I hadn’t been a cop, then you would have killed me too. Would you have killed another five women and stopped again at seven?”

  The pain seemed to bank in his eyes. He looked off into something that she couldn’t see, that no one could see, or begin to fathom, his eyes tender and vague, as if he were looking at someone or something behind a veil. His voice was soft with the radiance of worship when he finally said, “Who knows? Boston has rich pickings. Lots of women here need to be punished. I knew that long before I came here. Men have let them get away with foul language, with putting them down, insulting them. I don’t know if I ever would have stopped.”

  “But you stopped your killing in San Francisco at seven.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember. I don’t like it that you’re standing up and I’m not. I like women on their knees, begging me, or on their backs, watching that knife come down and down. You should be dead.” Incredibly, he tried to spit at her, but he didn’t have the strength to raise his head. His eyes closed, his head lolled to the side away from them.

  She felt Savich’s hand on her arm. “Let him rest, Sherlock. You can see him again later. Yes, I’ll let you talk to him again. I’m sure Captain Dougherty will agree as well, even though I think he’d like to pin back your ears nearly as much as I did.”

  She didn’t want to leave until she knew every single detail, but she just nodded, and followed them out. The little psycho was probably faking it. She wouldn’t put it past him.

  Marlin Jones opened his eyes as the door closed. Who was that woman? How had she known so much? Was she really a cop? No, he didn’t believe that. There was more to her than that. Bunches more. There was lots of deep wormy stuff inside her. He recognized the blackness, had felt it reaching out to him. Pain burned in his gut. He wished he had a knife, wished the cop sitting next to him were dead, wished he were strong enough, then he’d gut her but good. He needed to think before he spoke to her again. He knew she’d come back. He knew.

  “That wasn’t bad for a first interview, Sherlock.”

  “Thank you, Captain Dougherty. But it wasn’t enough time. He was faking it.”

  “I think you’re right, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “No,” Savich agreed. “It doesn’t. We’ll come back later, Sherlock. I wanted to go back to Washington today, but I don’t dare take
a chance of leaving you here alone. You’d probably smile at the captain here, wink at Ralph, cajole in your FBI voice, and they’d agree to anything you wanted.”

  “Not true,” Ralph Budnack said. “I’m the toughest cop in Boston. Nobody ever winks at me and gets away with it.”

  She laughed, actually laughed, enjoyed the sweetness of it for a moment, then punched him in the arm. “I won’t try it, I promise. As for you, sir, I really don’t think you need to stay unless you really want to.”

  “Stow it, Sherlock. We’ll both go home tomorrow. What I want to do now is go over those reports again and have MAX correlate just how many times anyone said the murdered women might have even occasionally cursed or even bad-mouthed their husbands just one time.”

  “I told you that no one did. Remember about not wanting to say bad things about the dead? It was just that there couldn’t have been any other reason to cut out their tongues.”

  “Yeah, you said that, didn’t you? However, somebody had to have said something sometime.”

  “He’s anal, ain’t he?” Ralph said, and Lacey laughed.

  “Thank God the cursing was right on,” Captain Dougherty said. “You nailed him good with that, Sherlock. My people told us that you really surprised him when you let out with the curses the first time at the lumberyard. They thought Savich was going to fall over with shock. Well, not really, but you didn’t do badly.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  “I’m sure glad we weren’t wrong about the cursing being the red button for Marlin Jones. And talking back to the husbands. I guess we have to score a big one for the Profilers. Of course it made sense, since old Marlin had cut out their tongues.”

  She knew, Savich realized, looking at that sudden brightness in her eyes. She knew without question that was what pushed Marlin Jones into violence. But how? There was something else that had happened seven years ago. It drove him nuts not to know what it was. If MAX couldn’t find anything in any of the interviews of the other murdered women, then that meant that Sherlock had based everything on the Profilers’ reports, that, or, well, something else had to have happened. But how could she have possibly known something that no one else did?