Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

“I imagine he did, otherwise he wouldn’t get his full quota of revenge. Octavia had to know who he was so she could fully appreciate how clever he is. I couldn’t tell if he was still wearing a stocking over his face on the lake. He was too far away.”

Sala looked at his bandaged wrists, scarcely felt the welts and bruises with the cream Dr. Staunton had smeared on. “No matter the time lag, months or years, it still surprises me Octavia didn’t recognize his voice right away. Octavia remembered how her termite exterminator talked, so why not him? Like I said, he had a Southern accent.” He swallowed. “But she was very frightened.”

“And fear can freeze you up. Maybe he disguised his voice, I don’t know.”

“I really like—liked—Octavia. She had guts, she was bright, and she really cared about helping people who couldn’t help themselves.”

“Which law firm was she with?”

“Jacobson, Wile, and Corman, in D.C. They’ll be served with a wa

rrant for their records of all the cases she was involved in. You know the lawyers are going to shout client confidentiality, no matter that one of their own was murdered. We’re talking court orders, delays—I mean, that’s what they all do, stall as long as they can to show their clients they tried. The bastards.”

“No disagreement from me.” She lightly patted his leg. “No more cramps?”

“No, I’m fine, good to go.” He looked back at the lake again, sitting perfectly still, and she knew what had happened to him, to them, was running on an endless loop. How long would it take for the experience to fade? A long time, Ty imagined. He’d known Octavia, slept with her, laughed with her. Ty couldn’t imagine what he was feeling. What Ty herself felt was wrung out and sad. She got to her feet. “It’s late. You ready to sleep?”

Sala rose to stand beside her, looking down at his bandaged wrists, not at her. “I guess I’m a coward, me the tough FBI agent, but I don’t want to close my eyes. I’ll see Octavia’s face. I’ll see that closet.”

She said matter-of-factly, “Tell you what, let’s haul a mattress and a couple of blankets and pillows out here. I’ve done it myself, and it’s a great way to get to sleep. You can look up at the stars, listen to the crickets, maybe drink another beer. I’ll drink another one with you.”

He really looked at her then, realized she was tall, at least five ten, nearly to his nose. The moonlight cast shadows on her face, but her eyes were clear and bright and compassionate. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s a great idea.” He paused. “Too bad I don’t have Lucky with me.”

“Lucky?”

“My cat. She’s a sweetheart. She’s pure black with big green eyes and she sleeps on my chest at night, purrs so loud the rhythm puts me right out. I had to leave her with my sister. My sister adores Lucky, so I’m wondering if she’ll want to come back home. It’s been a long time.”

“Lucky will race you back to your house, you’ll see. Where’d you get her?”

“I rescued her as a kitten, not even three pounds, found in an alley in Georgetown. Her first night, she tucked herself in around my neck, happy as a clam. And she’s been around my neck ever since.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“Then I’ll make sure you do.”

Before Sala fell asleep thirty minutes later, he wasn’t thinking about his cat. He was thinking about that single forgotten toilet paper roll and praying the fingerprints on the rod weren’t from some local teenager who’d broken into the house and left it there.

16

* * *

SAVICH HOUSE

GEORGETOWN

SATURDAY NIGHT

Savich was sitting up in bed, pillows behind him, working on MAX. He looked up and forgot what he was doing. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Sherlock in those tiger-striped sleep boxers and flowy top, silhouetted by the bathroom light, her hair pulled up on top of her head in a riot of curls, her face scrubbed clean, looking about sixteen.

Sherlock paused a moment, cocked her head to one side, listening. “I can’t get used to the quiet. Not a single sleeping-kid snort, no little feet padding down the hall to say good night to us or crawl in between us after a nightmare.” She stopped cold and swallowed hard. “I thought I’d come to grips with what happened today at the book festival, that man trying to take Sean again.” She shook her head. “It scared me to death, Dillon. And I didn’t catch him. Again.”

He patted the bed beside him. “Come here.” He gathered her close, kissed the top of her head. “I should have been with you, shouldn’t have gone off with the chief of police.”

It snapped her back. “Then you wouldn’t have found Sala, so all in all, I’d say we were all lucky. You know it was the same man, Dillon. How did he know we’d be at the book festival?”

“Best guess, he followed us, or maybe hacked the car’s GPS or tracked our cell phones. Then he waited for his chance, waited until you were with Sean and Marty by yourself. But a chocolate bar? Seems like he didn’t think it through very well. He had to know you’d be watching for him, and you were.”

“Dillon, if he followed us there, then he could have followed us to your mom’s house.”