Read Nemesis Online

Authors: Catherine Coulter

Tags: #Fiction, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thriller

Nemesis (5 page)

He watched the Crown Vic pull away.
Where
were they taking her?

Every TV station was going back and forth from JFK to St. Pat’s, newspeople on scene, so excited to be at ground zero, they were nearly stuttering. They had huge news stories to tell right on top of each other. Naturally, they tied the two incidents together—it was a time-honored terrorist strategy, wasn’t it? To get the first responders out of the way of the prime target, St. Patrick’s Cathedral? If it hadn’t been for the bravery of Father Joseph Reilly, a former Gulf War vet turned priest—and on and on it went. He saw Romeo Rodriguez, the altar boy who’d found the bomb in barely enough time, a thin, white-faced little boy, maybe three, four years older than Sean, and cameras showed him close up beside the priest, his small hands clasping the priest’s.

Homeland Security put every airport in the nation on high alert. But how would they protect the large historic cathedrals? There were so many to choose from, if a terrorist was bent on destroying prime symbols of Western culture and civilization. Savich took calls from Director Comey; his own boss, ADA Jimmy Maitland; and every member of the CAU; Sherlock’s parents in San Francisco; a few FBI agents in New York, Nicholas Drummond among them; and the chief of security operations at JFK, Guy Alport. Savich had watched him being shotgunned with questions until he’d looked ready to bolt or shoot them all. Alport called to tell him Sherlock was scary good, that Savich was a lucky man to have that woman. He said he wanted to meet her husband, the guy she called a Big Dog. He laughed, then sobered immediately. “That priest at Saint Pat’s, I’d sure like to hire him, but God beat me to it.”

Finally, Savich set his cell to vibrate, put the landline on automatic message, and fetched Sean from next door.

When he finally heard from Sherlock at eleven o’clock that night that she was on her way home—hallelujah—he left Gabriella to watch Sean and left for Reagan National Airport, surprised her flight was only three hours late. At last he saw her walk past the luggage carousels, a bulging black FBI briefcase in one hand, a small black handbag in the other. Even from a distance he could see she was exhausted, running on fumes, but when she saw him, her face lit up. A few people recognized her, but she didn’t acknowledge them, kept her eyes straight ahead, never looking away from his face.

When Savich finally got her into the Porsche, guarded by airport security in a no-parking zone, he revved the sweet engine and pulled away from the curb, relieved to see no reporters. He said nothing until he could exit the airport. He pulled her against him, held her tightly until she reared back in his arms. “I’m okay, you can see I’m okay. Do you know what, Dillon? They gave me a first-class seat on the flight home and three bottles of champagne. The flight attendants wrapped them in napkins so they wouldn’t break and I stuffed them in my briefcase. Do you know some people even asked for my autograph on the plane?”

He laughed, told her she should take a bath in all that champagne.

On the way home he told her about the calls from President Gilbert and Vice President Foley, and perhaps most important, the call from the CEO of Virgin America, offering Sherlock free lifetime first-class tickets to wherever she wanted to go. He wondered if the Pope would invite Romeo Rodriguez to the Vatican for a private reception, Father Joseph to accompany him, once he recovered from his injuries.

He saw she was still wound tight, knew it would be good to get her mind off New York, and so he told her about the bizarre murder at the Rayburn House Office Building earlier that day. The victim was a young man who’d been stabbed through the heart with an Athame—pronounce that a-tha-may, he’d been told—a ritual knife used in witches’ ceremonies, quickly identified by the medical examiner as it had been conveniently left stuck in the victim’s chest, complete with his killer’s fingerprints. As for the man who’d stabbed him, he’d been brought down immediately by several people in the hallway and held for the police. Savich’s boss, Jimmy Maitland, had called Savich because the murderer claimed to have no memory of what had happened and because the ME said he’d never before seen an Athame used as a murder weapon.

“Mr. Maitland said I shouldn’t be surprised he called me. I interviewed the guy, name’s Walter Givens, an auto mechanic from Plackett, Virginia. He’s unmarried, but has a serious girlfriend, likes beer and hanging out with his friends. He was terrified, no faking that, and he has absolutely no memory of killing anyone. He said he finally came to when a half-dozen people slammed him down on the floor. The young man he killed was George Carroll, the owner of a catering company called Eat Well and Prosper in Plackett, Virginia. He said he’d known Sparky—that was George Carroll’s nickname—since they were kids and his family had moved to Plackett. He liked him, sure, he liked him, everybody did, and he was a real good cook, especially for a guy. When I showed him the Athame, he claimed he’d never seen it before in his life. It looked weird to him, with those ugly dragon heads on the handle. He didn’t want to touch it. I’ll show you a photo—it’s called a Dual Dragon Athame, seven-inch blade, carved dragon heads with red ruby eyes.”

“Did this Walter Givens really not remember? You’re sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m positive. Frankly, he isn’t smart enough to fool anyone. Dr. Hicks agreed. He believes someone was strong enough to hypnotize him into committing murder, something Dr. Hicks had a difficult time believing. He wanted to hypnotize Walter, but Walter refused, he was too scared to let someone else fool with his brain.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as scared as Walter Givens was.”

“Can’t say I blame Walter, not after what happened to him.”

“But we have to know how it all came about. Maybe we can talk Walter into the hypnotism tomorrow. Do you know Dr. Hicks patted my hand, told me to figure out how to convince him?”

“Both the victim and the murderer are from the same town? Plackett, Virginia?”

“Yes. Plackett’s a small town about thirty minutes northeast of Richmond, two thousand souls or thereabouts.” He paused for a moment. “Both the murdered man, Sparky Carroll, and Walter Givens, his murderer, from the same town—it’s got to all tie in with this ritual witch’s knife, this Athame.”

“So we have a pissed-off witch on our hands and Sparky Carroll somehow got on his bad side?”

“Sounds like it.”

“I saw an Athame once,” Sherlock said, her voice slurring, she was so tired. “I think it was medieval. It was pretty.”

Pretty?
That brutal knife with its ruby dragon eyes staring out had looked alien to him, and malevolent.

Savich pulled the Porsche into the garage, turned in his seat, cupped her beloved face between his hands, leaned forward, and touched his nose to hers. “You scared the crap out of me. I love you.” He kissed her, and took her whispered “I love you, too, and I’m so happy to be here saying that to you,” and when her eyes closed, her mouth still smiling, he finally let go of his fear.

•   •   •

SAVICH LAY ON
his back, staring at the dark ceiling, Sherlock’s head on his shoulder. She was boneless, and slightly drunk, with half a bottle of champagne in her bloodstream. Savich wished he’d drunk more champagne, maybe he’d be snoozing, too, but no, his brain was stone-cold sober.

Bless her heart, she hadn’t had time to think about consequences, but Director Comey had. He’d assigned an assistant to handle all the media requests that would be flooding in to the Bureau. He’d also sent two agents to keep the media vans away from the Savich front yard and driveway. He’d laughed, suggested Savich and Sherlock might consider visiting Canada for a while, maybe take Romeo Rodriguez and Father Joseph with them.

Maybe Banff, Savich thought, his exhausted brain finally beginning to fuzz over; he’d like to visit Banff in western Canada. Maybe swim with Sean in Lake Louise. Need a wet suit for that. Did they make wet suits small enough for Sean? Sure, they did.

Savich’s last thought before he fell asleep was how it had been possible for someone to invade Walter Givens’s mind, convince him to murder Sparky Carroll, and then make him forget all of it. And why murder him in the middle of the hallway of the third floor of the Rayburn House Office Building with a witch’s ceremonial knife?

REINEKE POST OFFICE

REINEKE, VIRGINIA

Thursday, 5:15 a.m.

E
llie Moran was a twenty-five-year veteran of the Reineke post office, a woman as stalwart and plain as the boxy red-brick building she worked in. It sat proudly in the middle of High Street, sandwiched between the sheriff’s office and Donut Heaven.

Ellie knew everyone in town, and most of their secrets. She liked to think of herself as the hub of the Reineke gossip wheel. She might not be the postmaster, but she made the place run, and when the new postmaster showed in town the year before, he figured out what was good for him fast enough and fell into line.

She’d learned nearly every job and did each well, but her favorite was greeting the first early truck from the distribution center in Richmond that delivered the big rolling metal OTR package containers. She liked the predawn, enjoyed watching the sky get lighter and lighter as she wheeled the OTRs in from the dock inside the post office and unloaded them into the route hampers. She knew all the contract drivers from the private service the post office used, knew the sound each of their big trucks made as they backed up to the dock to unload the five to ten big OTRs that held up to fifty parcels each. Brakey Alcott was driving the truck this morning. He was young enough to be her son, always sucking down coffee like young people did to stay awake so early in the morning. Usually they joked back and forth as he pushed off the OTRs onto the loading dock, and he usually gave her a wave and called her beautiful as he headed back out again. But there were no jokes today. He was quiet, sort of nervous, and couldn’t wait to wheel the OTRs onto the loading dock and get away. She tried a joke, one of her best ones about the foul-mouthed parrot and the freezer, but Brakey didn’t even seem to hear her.
Girl trouble,
she thought; she’d bet her new Skechers it was girl trouble.

She wheeled in the first OTR, released and lowered the side of the cage, and began unloading the parcels, tossing each one into its proper route hamper, never getting it wrong. She’d been scheme-trained years before and that meant learning every street, every address, every route. She’d never been tested, but she thought she probably knew every resident’s name, except the new ones. When she finished she’d head for the employee lounge with its brand-new Keurig K-Cup machine for a cup of tea. She’d be alone, it was even too early for Eddie Hoop, the mail sorter, to show up and brag about the American postal system, the best in the world, blah, blah, blah, a tune he never tired of singing.

She hummed Justin Bieber’s “As Long as You Love Me” as she worked, her movements smooth and fast. She wheeled in the sixth and last OTR, this one filled to the top. She carefully lowered the side so the packages wouldn’t go flying off to the concrete floor. She lifted out a long, narrow package, read the address, and tossed it into route hamper eight. She paused to look at a small parcel addressed to Mrs. Lori Bamburger. From Victoria’s Secret, another pair of black lace undies that would be returned. Lori always ordered them two sizes too small.

What was that black stain nearly covering the address? She touched it—dry and smooth. Had a clerk at the distribution center spilled something on it? It was still legible, so she tossed it into the hamper and lifted out the next package. There were more black stains, drips and smears and smudges. She frowned. What was this stuff? She lifted out the next parcel.

And screamed.

SAVICH HOUSE

Thursday morning

W
hen Savich’s cell blasted out Billy Ray, he’d been dreaming, not about Sherlock and the madman at JFK, but about walking through a stark white room whose walls were covered with mounted Athames, all their blades dripping blood, hundreds of them, some handles old and elaborately carved, others simple black-painted wood. The problem was he couldn’t find his way out.

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