Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

“Would you like to listen to some music? I’ll get us some more bourbon in a minute.”

He felt Lissy coming near, and nearer still, getting ready to talk, her breath hot, rancid, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop her. She didn’t want to play, didn’t want him to have fun. She’d fooled him, and now she was going to take Cindy down.

The empty bourbon glass went flying when the first kick hit Cindy’s left leg. She stumbled back, yelled, “Why’d you do that? What’s wrong with you?”

Cindy was strong, she was fit, but she knew she couldn’t win if he really came after her, not in the long run. She’d invited the monster into her apartment herself. Fear paralyzed her for a moment, then fury. She kicked out, aiming for his crotch, like her brother Simon had taught her. But he was bent to the side as he ran at her, and her foot struck him full strength in the belly. He lurched back, grabbed his stomach, and keened, as if she’d shot him and he was dying. He screamed, but it was high, more like a wail. “You bitch! You kicked me right in my staples!” A knife appeared in his hand. She hadn’t even seen him pull it out of his pants pocket, and she backed up into the kitchen. He continued to scream at her, cursing her, his voice still high, hysterical, not making sense. Then he ran at her, trapping her in the kitchen. The knife was raised high over his head, and she saw tears running down his face. She grabbed a skillet off the stove and hit out at the knife, knocking it aside for a moment, but he backhanded her, knocked the skillet out of her hand. The knife was coming down at her again. She kicked out, but again she missed, got his thigh. “You puking little bitch!”

She kicked out once more, and this time she got him firmly in the crotch. He stood frozen, the knife in his fist, and he stared at her, then crumpled to the floor, moaning and holding himself, rolling over, cursing and crying. Cindy ran, tried to pull open the front door, but it was stuck again, and her hands were slippery with sweat. She yanked and pulled. She heard him stumbling to his feet. She heard the click of a bullet being chambered.

49

* * *

SAVICH HOUSE

GEORGETOWN

WEDNESDAY MORNING

Sherlock poured Cheerios into a Transformers cereal bowl before realizing Sean wasn’t there to eat it. He was still at his grandmother’s house. She stood in the center of the kitchen, staring down at the bowl, and cried.

She felt Dillon pull her against him. She burrowed her face into his shoulder and cried some more.

She hiccupped, got a grip on herself, and finally pulled away. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” She knuckled her eyes. “Crying like an idiot, it never helps. What’s wrong with me?” She looked up at him and felt another tear slide down her face. “Dillon, I miss Sean so much, and it’s all because of that psycho Victor Nesser. We’ve got to find him, Dillon. This is personal. I’d like to shoot him, maybe dump him in Lake Massey, let his bones lie there forever.”

Not a bad idea. Savich said, “Last night I dreamed Sean and I were throwing a football in our backyard. I threw the football over the fence, and Sean took a running leap and cleared that fence by a good foot, howling with laughter.” He stopped cold. He wasn’t about to tell Sherlock that right before he awoke, he’d realized Sean hadn’t come back. Savich had vaulted the fence to find him, but he saw only fog and shadows. Like in his vision at Gatewood. Savich closed his eyes against the fear he felt. She was right. They had to find Victor and end this. At least Buzz Riley was safe, visiting one of his kids in Chicago rather than flying to Saint Thomas. As far as Savich knew, he and Sherlock and Sean were the only people left in Washington on Victor’s hit list.

He pulled her close again, kissed her hair, felt her shudder. She said against his neck, “I would have liked to see Sean jump that back fence. Where was Astro?”

“He was barking his head off, cheering Sean on. But he wasn’t Astro, he was a thirty-pound bulldog, and he couldn’t move very fast.” His cell phone sang out “Shape of You” by Ed Sheeran.

He looked down at the ID. “It’s Sala.”

“He’s calling this early, it’s got to be important.”

“Sala, what’s going on in Willicott?”

He listened as he watched Sherlock carefully stack Sean’s favorite Transformers cereal bowl back in the cupboard then splay her hands on the counter, as if for support. Then she straightened, shoulders back, head up, and he saw the steel in her. “You said the chief of police, who’s also Leigh Saks’s godfather, said she’s different? Her mother agreed? Different how, exactly?”

Finally, he said, “Okay, Sherlock and I will drive up to Haggersville. Give us a couple of hours. We’ll see you at the hospital. If anything comes up in the meantime, call me.”

He punched off his cell. “This sounds interesting.” He told Sherlock what Sala had said about Leigh Saks. “Let me call Ollie, make sure everything’s on track at work. Maybe we’ll get a lucky break and someone will spot Victor again.”

But there hadn’t been a lucky break by 10:30 a.m., when Savich and Sherlock walked into the Haggersville Community Hospital ICU. They saw a young officer on guard outside one of the cubicles. He immediately rose and held up his hand. Savich and Sherlock pulled out their creds and introduced themselves. A tall man came out of the cubicle, his bespoke suit wrinkled, his eyes tired. Savich immediately recognized Congressman Andrew Mellon.

“I heard your name, Agent Savich. I know who you are and have greatly admired your career.” Mellon shook Savich’s hand. He turned then. “You must be Agent Sherlock.” He beamed at her, pumped her hand. “Saving all those lives at JFK. It was amazing. I’m one of your biggest fans.”

“Thank you.”

Mellon said, “Agent Po

rto told us you were coming here to see my daughter.”

Savich’s eyebrow went up. “Your daughter? Leigh Saks is your daughter?”

“Yes, she is.”

Sherlock gave the congressman a long look. “So it took her nearly being murdered for you to come and acknowledge her?”