Power Play (FBI Thriller 18)

“No, she’s in the living room, rocking and knitting! There’s nothing at all on her face! Do you think I wouldn’t know? She’s mine as well as those two cops!” Again Blessed stared at her, stared as hard as he could, but she wasn’t close enough. He felt his knife in his left jacket pocket, felt the gun in the right that would do him no good. He had to get close enough to take her over, to make her his puppet like the others. He took a step toward her. Sherlock raised her Glock, pointed it center mass. “Don’t, Blessed. Step back, now. Mrs. Ransom fooled you, Blessed. She’s brave and she’s smart.”

He was breathing hard as he stepped back, but Sherlock could see him thinking, cursing that old biddy who’d taken him in, trying to figure out what to do. Sherlock looked at him dispassionately. His teeth looked discolored. He looked, she thought, much older than his fifty-six years. His graying brown hair was thin on his head, a gray stubble dotted his sagging jowls. He looked like a harmless old dude, except for his eyes. Even from twelve feet away, she saw madness in him, bursting to get out. His eyes looked like a deep well of black, and behind those eyes crouched scary things.

It wasn’t safe to try to get handcuffs on him. She could wait. Dillon had to be coming through the front door any second. He’d insisted she come through the back because he thought it would be safer. And she’d run into Mrs. Ransom coming out of the bathroom.

“You killed poor Grace and Mama!”

“What’s wrong with you, Blessed? Can’t you remember what really happened? I had nothing to do with either Grace’s or your mother’s death. It was you who killed Grace, Blessed, he was badly wounded, dying, and you used the sheriff as your weapon.”

“Mama died in that miserable hospital because of you, no one else, only you and that husband of yours!”

Blessed started walking toward her, his knife clutched in his hand.

She raised the Glock. “Put down that knife, Blessed, or I’ll have to shoot you.”

He screamed, “Pilson, Bibber! Come here now! Get in front of me!”

She didn’t have time, because the two young men dashed out of the living room and made a wall in front of Blessed before she could react.

“Now walk toward her.”

Neither man hesitated; they walked side by side directly at her. She couldn’t shoot them, she couldn’t.

The front door burst open and she yelled, “Dillon!”

The two men were on her, and Blessed was right in front of her, looking into her eyes. It was the last thing she remembered.

Savich saw two police officers, Blessed, and Sherlock standing like a frozen tableau. It was Blessed who said, “Bibber, Pilson, draw your weapons and aim them at that man. If he fires his gun, shoot him.”

Savich looked at Sherlock, and what he saw stopped his heart. She wasn’t moving, and neither was Blessed. He looked away from her and back to Blessed—he was smiling. The two cops had their Berettas aimed at his chest. Sherlock still hadn’t moved, not a twitch, and she didn’t speak.

Blessed said, “Well, now, Agent Savich, looks like we’ve got us a situation. I say one word to either of these boys and they’ll shoot you dead, or you’ll shoot them, both cops, just like you. As for your wife, forget her, she’s mine. Shall I have her shoot you instead?”

Sherlock stood quietly, her eyes blank, her face slack. She wasn’t there. She held her Glock at her side.

Blessed looked at each of them again. He felt elated, warm to his soul. He could do anything and everything.

“Don’t let him move, boys,” he said, then studied Sherlock, his minion, his tool. He looked at her red hair, all the curls feathering around her face. She was so alive, so vivid, he’d always thought. It was a pity she had to pay for her sins against Grace and Mama, but Father had always taught him and Grace that the way of a just and righteous life was to make sure people took responsibility, paid for their sins. He knew then what he was going to do. It was a stroke of brilliance, really.

He moved quietly forward, stopped. He turned to look at her again. But no need, she was still gone, locked securely into him, her master in all things. It was the best feeling in the world.

“I want you to kill him,” he said to Sherlock. “I want you to kill your husband. A nice clean shot through the head. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, “I understand.”

He stroked his hand over her bright hair, then sifted the soft curls between his fingers. “Don’t shoot yourself in the head. I don’t want gore all over your beautiful hair. After you’ve killed your husband, shoot yourself in the heart.”