Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

Sala Porto held up his hand, and looked over at Savich, who’d carried him firefighter style over his shoulder down the two flights of stairs, since Sala’s legs were numb. Sala rubbed his legs, feeling the pins and needles and the cramps. He said simply, “I owe you my life. Thanks for searching me out. How did you know I was up there? Did you see me in one of your visions?”

Charlie came to attention. “Visions? What do you mean, Agent Porto?”

Savich said easily, “Agent Porto is joking. I was checking the upstairs, went to the third floor, and found a locked door. I heard something, broke in, and found Agent Porto tied up and stuffed in a closet.” He thought about the series of unlikely events that had led him to Sala. It had been too close. He said a silent prayer of gratitude and squeezed Sala’s shoulder. “You hung in there, that’s what was important.”

Sala was so grateful to be alive, so relieved Savich had found him, that for a moment, he couldn’t find any words. Then he said, his voice thick, “The truth is I didn’t think I was going to make it. When I woke up in the closet and got my brain working again, I thought he’d come back and kill me after he murdered Octavia, but he didn’t. I don’t know why.” Sala didn’t tell them how close he’d been to giving up, accepting he’d die of thirst in that closet. He’d tried to make peace with himself, prayed his parents and his brothers and sisters would be all right without him. He didn’t tell them he’d have rather had a bullet in his mouth, over and done with instantly, than have to face his own death like that, knowing it would take days upon days of knowing, of waiting, of trying to come to terms with it. He said, “Chief, he hated Octavia. He killed her, didn’t he? How?”

12

* * *

It was difficult, but Ty kept her voice matter-of-fact. “He took her out in a rowboat, struck her head with an oar, and threw her body in the lake. We found her this morning, identified her.”

Sala looked down at his wrists, raw and bleeding because he’d tried hour after hour to loosen the ropes. But there’d been no give at all. At least he now had feeling back in his feet and legs. He realized it felt odd to be alive and know he’d be all right. But Octavia wouldn’t be all right, the bastard had killed her. He swallowed. “He was after Octavia. I was only an extra on the set. He told me I was in the wrong place, wrong time, and he laughed and said ‘Sorry, Agent, but c’est la vie.’?” He looked at Ty. “How do you know exactly what he did to Octavia? It was so early, barely dawn when he took her.”

Ty said, “Against all odds, I was the one who saw him kill her. I live directly across the lake and I was standing at the railing of my back deck, admiring the beautiful dawn over the lake, like I do nearly every morning, and I saw him strike her with an oar. If I hadn’t happened to be on my deck at that particular moment, neither of you would have been found for a long time. Agent Porto, if you feel up to it, tell us what happened. Can you identify this man, at least give us a good description of him?”

“I never saw his face. I’d know his voice anywhere, though, some Southern in it. He screamed at Octavia that she’d told lies about him, that it was time for her to pay. He screamed it over and over, cursing her.” Sala felt pain spike through his head, thought he probably had a concussion and closed his eyes a moment. No one said a word. When he opened his eyes, he managed a crooked smile. “Some FBI agent I am. Let me try to be coherent and tell you what happened from the beginning.” He knew it would be easier said than done. He let his rage come to his rescue, let it focus him on the here and now. The pain, the guilt, the grief over Octavia could come later. “I’ve got to speak to Octavia’s parents.”

Flynn said, “I’ll handle that. What’s important now is getting a handle on this man who killed her. Start at the beginning.”

Sala nodded, took a sip out of the bottle of water Ty handed him. “Yes, all right. Octavia made all the arrangements for our week’s stay here at her aunt’s cabin near Lake Massey. She asked me to join her and both of us could de-stress, she said. I’d just finished up a difficult case, and she was deeply involved in a federal money-laundering case coming up. She wanted us to be alone, even cook our own meals, swim in the lake, lie around, and drink margaritas. And that’s what we did, except the rowboat, I guess. I rented it from a guy named Bick, told him I’d return his boat early yesterday morning, no later than six a.m. Octavia had to get back to Washington for a deposition. When I was in the closet, I was hoping Bick would come looking for it, realize something was wrong, but that didn’t happen.

“The killer got into the cabin when it was still dark, maybe half an hour before dawn. I jerked awake at the sound of a board creaking, and my hand went automatically to my Glock on the bedside table.

“A man’s low voice said, ‘Don’t, Agent Porto. Touch that gun and you’re going to die sooner than you have to,’ and he laughed.

“I still made a grab for my Glock. He screamed at me, ‘Put that gun down or the bitch is dead,’ and I saw he had the tip of a knife not an inch above Octavia’s neck. It was barely light enough in the cabin for me to see he was wearing a stocking mask over his face. Octavia moaned and woke up, tried to jerk away. He grabbed her, and I jumped out of bed, my Glock in my hand, when he yelled again, ‘Didn’t you hear me, moron? Drop the Glock, Mr. Agent, or the bitch dies.’

“He pressed the knife into her neck, pinning her to the bed. I could see blood running down her neck. I dropped my Glock.

“?‘Get back in bed. That’s good. Don’t move.’

“Octavia made a slight mewling noise, and he looked down at her. ‘You’re finally awake, are you? Time to party, you lying bitch. Put your hands on top of the covers, Agent, or I’ll do her right here and now!’

“I put my hands on the outside of the covers, waited, assessed. Octavia asked him what he thought she’d done to him. She pleaded with him to tell her who he was, but again, he only laughed. She kept trying to talk to him, telling him she could make things right.

“All he ever said was ‘No, bitch. I’ll tell you everything, but not yet.’

“He laughed again and pushed the knife in deeper, told her to shut up until Octavia stopped making a sound. He grabbed my Glock and told us to put our clothes on.

“I knew it was crunch time. I leaped at him, but I wasn’t fast enough. He hit me on the head with the butt of my own gun, and I was gone.

“When I woke up, I was alone, my arms tied tight behind my back with rope, my ankles duct-taped together, a gag in my mouth. I realized I was in a small closet and I couldn’t move.” His voice hitched, then smoothed. “I’d about given up when I heard your voice, Savich.

“I’ve played it over and over in my mind.” He looked at each of them. “I want to break him apart. I want to kill this guy.”

Ty opened her mouth to spout some line about the courts seeing to justice but realized it would only sound hollow, even ridiculous. In his shoes, she’d want to kill the man, too.

Sala said, “As I told you, I finally decided he was going to leave me there to rot in that closet.” He took another sip of water. “I have no idea why he didn’t kill me at the cabin. Maybe he was coming back to haul me out to the rowboat, like he did Octavia.”

Savich said, “He sank the rowboat after he came back from murdering Octavia, so it’s obvious he wasn’t planning on taking you out in it.”

“How do you know that?” Flynn asked him.

Because I saw him do it. “It makes sense, don’t you

think?”