Paradox (An FBI Thriller Book 22) Page 5

  She asked again, “Dillon, are you all right?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Yes, of course, Ty. You were right about the desecration.”

  She nodded. “Some morons even smashed the beautiful etched front windows, at least I think they were once etched. I’ve always wondered why people, kids especially, get off on destroying things.” She pointed to the floor. “Look at those Italian tiles. You know they were beautiful once, but now they’re filthy, gouged, and chipped. And the white walls, covered with graffiti that probably goes back years. See, here’s one dated 2003 and signed, Motown. Go figure.”

  Flynn said, “Kids are all hormones and bravado, and the house can’t fight back.” He grinned, waggled his eyebrows. “Or maybe it can.” He checked his iWatch. “Forensics might already be in Willicott to take the bones and Octavia Ryan’s body to Quantico. They should be out here soon. When will this Hanger start dragging the lake again?”

  Ty said, “Not much longer, I don’t think. He’s good, don’t worry. Any more bones, he’ll find them.” She swallowed, cleared her throat. “I’ve been told bones take a very long time to disintegrate. I can’t help but think about all those people who were thrown in out there.” She shook herself. “Okay, through there is the living room—big, beautiful once, you can see traces—the high ceilings and the elaborate moldings. You’ll see some lowlifes ripped out the appliances in the kitchen, tore off the doors to the cabinets. It’s really sad. So I guess we’ll split up. Look for any signs that someone’s been here lately.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I’ll check upstairs.” Savich headed for the wide, once-ornate staircase.

  “Don’t let a ghost grab you by the throat,” Flynn called after him.

  Savich waved his hand and walked slowly up the stairs, careful where he stepped because the oak boards were scuffed and scarred, some scored with knives, some ripped up entirely. Many of the banister posts were broken, tossed onto the floor below. The wall beside him was covered with a science fiction landscape, all done by one hand. The aliens were very inventive, their tentacles heaving and intertwining in what looked like violent copulation.

  At the top of the stairs, Savich found himself on a wide landing. To his right stretched a long, narrow hallway, the light dim because all the doors were closed. To his left was a shorter hallway, shadowed as well. He turned right and walked to the door at the very end of the hall. It was the master bedroom. He stepped into a large, perfectly square room, empty of furnishings. He stood in the doorway, disbelieving. There was no graffiti on the walls. They were painted a soft cream color that had held up well, looked almost freshly painted. He walked to the center of the room and stood quietly, looking around, not understanding. There were no broken windows, no gouges in the oak-planked floor, no dust he could see anywhere. The room looked frozen in time, as if waiting for its occupant to walk in. He looked into an enormous adjoining bathroom. The sink, toilet, shower, tub, and counter were dated, but stark white and clean, again, without a hint of dust. Like in the bedroom, nothing looked touched, again, as if waiting for someone to come in and brush his teeth. He stepped back into the bedroom, trying to make sense of it. Why wasn’t this room trashed? Because someone had to have been there recently. He walked to French doors that gave onto a deep covered deck looking out at the lake, glistening beneath the noonday sun, his hand outstretched to turn the shining gold handle.

  Suddenly, as if someone on the remote had changed the channel, the scene in front of him morphed into something else entirely. He saw a fog bank, gray and thick, rolled nearly to the shore, and a figure in an acid-green boat rowed toward him out of the fog, dipping the oars rhythmically. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The person was wearing a ball cap pulled low, a dark jacket, and jeans.

  The rowboat touched the end of the dock, and a man—Savich was certain now it was a man—stepped onto the dock and laid the oars down beside him. Savich couldn’t make out his features, he was wearing dark sunglasses, and now his ball cap was pulled even lower. He watched the man step off the dock and onto the beach. Savich watched him pick up a large rock, carry it back, and place it in the rowboat. He worked quickly, made three more trips. Satisfied, he tipped the side of the boat until water started to pour in. He watched the Green Gaiter slowly sink. He picked up the oars and hurled them out into the lake. He turned back, stopped, and looked up, directly at Savich. He yelled something Savich couldn’t hear, grinned wide, pumped his fist in the air, and walked back toward the house. Savich would swear he heard whistling.

  He heard the front door open and close.

  His heart skipped a beat. Savich didn’t want to believe what he’d seen, but there was no choice. He knew to his bones he’d witnessed the killer coming back after murdering Octavia. He stood motionless, drew a deep breath, let it all sink in. This sort of phantom re-creation of a violent deed had happened to him before, but this time he hadn’t seen the actual violent deed, only the aftermath. Had he imagined hearing the door, too, or had he heard the murderer come into the house? No, it had to have been the police chief or Flynn. He turned to look out again at the lake. He saw Charlie standing at the end of the dock, looking down at the sunken rowboat, the chief and Flynn standing beside him. Neither of them had closed the front door. Who had?

  9

  * * *

  WILLICOTT BOOK FESTIVAL

  Remus McGurk called the nearly eighty children to sit cross-legged in a semicircle on the floor in front of him. The tent was large enough to accommodate all of them and their parents. McGurk settled himself in a big armchair. Sherlock soon realized he was a master showman, mesmerizing the children with a brand-new Captain Carr Corbin and Orkett adventure in a deep, booming voice. Every young eye was fastened on him, enthralled. Remus McGurk was at least twenty years older than his author’s photo on his book jackets and looked, in fact, a great deal like Santa, with his head of thick white hair and comfortable paunch. Unlike Santa, he was wearing a yellow nineteenth-century lawman duster over jeans, a Star Trek command red shirt that stretched over his belly, and shiny black boots. Like Sherlock, parents, both standing and seated on the grass, seemed to be enjoying the show.

  Sherlock didn’t speak to any of the other parents, she was too much on alert watching over Marty and Sean. She spotted a young man with dark hair and a long face, wearing chinos and an untucked plaid shirt, who didn’t look like a parent. She looked for any sign of a gun under his shirt, looked to see if he was showing any interest in Sean or simply watching the spellbound children, listening to their gasps and laughter, amused at their absolute focus on McGurk. Was she being paranoid? Maybe, but all she had to do was think about the man standing over Sean with a gun and a knife, and she didn’t care. The young man pulled something out of his shirt pocket. She was ready to take him down—no, it was a small notebook. She watched him write as he looked and listened. A reporter? She drew a deep breath, heard Sean’s laughter when McGurk read how Captain Corbin threw a bar of chocolate in the air and Orkett caught it in his mouth and made great chewing noises. She found herself wondering if Remus McGurk was a pseudonym, decided it had to be. She listened with half an ear to the scary situation Captain Corbin was in. Not to worry, Orkett came to the rescue. He gnawed through his ropes, freeing Captain Corbin to drive off the bad alien who was trying to steal all the water on the planet Ark. McGurk bowed, and the children went wild, clapping and cheering.

  She heard a dad whisper to his neighbor, “Guess what the kids are going to demand for lunch?” They laughed. “Yeah, I’ll have to keep my boy from feeding chocolate to the dog.”

  Sherlock wanted to tell him to make a big point of the chocolate, when she saw a man step into Tent A and stand quietly, looking at the mob of children. He was wearing dark sunglasses and a ball cap, but Sherlock saw he was searching through the excited children talking and shoving as they formed a long line with their parents for McGurk to sign their books. Was he looking for his own child? He didn’t look like a parent. Sherlock kept
a hand on each child’s shoulder as the line moved slowly forward until they had nearly reached McGurk. She looked again at the man in the sunglasses and cap, and knew to her gut he was staring at Sean. She turned to the woman behind her, large, fit, with no-nonsense mother’s eyes, herding three young children. Sherlock jerked her creds out of her pocket and lowered her voice. “I’m FBI. Please keep an eye on this little boy and girl. You can all speak to Mr. McGurk together.” She lowered her voice. “I have to go check on someone.”

  The woman looked squarely at Sherlock. “Go. I’ve got them.”

  Sherlock worked her way through the crowd, circling around behind the man. He was walking slowly toward the children, toward Sean. It was still crowded, kids with signed books pressed to their chests milling around, not wanting to leave. Sherlock’s heart pounded despite her brain telling her he certainly couldn’t hope to take Sean here, in this tent, surrounded by other children and dozens of parents. It would be madness.

  She managed to get behind him, no more than three people between them. She couldn’t make out his features with the sunglasses and the ball cap, but he moved young, like the man who’d stood over Sean. He was also slight—like the man who’d stood over Sean. Wait, hadn’t he been taller? She couldn’t be sure. He stopped, pulled something out of his jacket, and Sherlock went for her Glock. He held up a large solid bar of chocolate, waved it around, shouted, “All of you know Orkett loves chocolate. Whoever can tell me how old Orkett is wins this incredible nut-filled five-pound chocolate bar!”

  The children moved like a tsunami toward him, yelling out numbers. A little boy screamed, “Twenty-one! He grew up!”

  A little girl, not to be outdone, shouted, “No, Orkett’s only a puppy! He wets the floor!”

  Parents trailed indulgently after their kids as they shouted out numbers, obviously thinking this was part of the McGurk show. And was it? Sherlock saw the woman she’d asked to watch Sean and Marty, keeping a tight rein on them as well as her own three. She wasn’t laughing with the other parents, she was watchful.

  Suddenly the man turned, saw Sherlock was close, and without hesitation, he threw the candy bar to her. She automatically caught it. He yelled, “She’s got Orkett’s chocolate! She’ll pick the winner!” Dozens of excited, yelling children, their parents behind them, changed direction on a dime and swarmed toward her. Sherlock quickly lost sight of him. She threw the chocolate bar as far as she could toward Mr. McGurk, who was staring at the spectacle, looking bewildered and a bit pissed at losing his worshipful audience. Sherlock slipped past the throng of people and made her way out of the tent. She heard a little girl yell, “I’ve got it! Orkett’s chocolate bar!”

  Outside the tent, she stopped, panting, looked around, but she didn’t see him. There were too many people blocking her view. She wondered if she caught a glimpse of him ducking behind a lemonade and cookie kiosk. She heard Sean shouting behind her, “Mama! This lady won’t let us go! Help!”

  Sherlock slowly turned back. She doubted she’d have caught him, not in this mad jumble of people. Ditch the ball cap and the sunglasses, and she wouldn’t know him from Orkett. She calmed as she turned back to see the woman holding Sean’s arm in one hand and Marty’s in the other, her own three kids staring at her, their eyes big. Sherlock trotted up to them. “I’m here, Sean. She was keeping an eye on you two for me. Please thank her, kids.”

  Sean and Marty gave Sherlock a confused look, but they thanked her. The woman said low, “Did you think that man with the candy bar was up to something? Maybe a pedophile?”

  Sherlock swallowed. “I don’t know, it’s possible. Thank you very much. I’m Agent Sherlock.” She stuck out her hand.

  “I’m Maureen Jernigan.”

  Sherlock shook her strong, capable hand and gave her a card. “Mrs. Jernigan, if there is ever anything you need, call me.”

  Maureen studied the card, but only for a moment because her little girl was pulling on her leg, demanding a chocolate bar with nuts, like that man was waving around. Maureen was soon trotting away with her children. She turned her head, gave Sherlock a smile, and disappeared into a crowd.

  Sherlock took Sean’s and Marty’s hands. “Time for lunch. Is Mr. McGurk going to join us for barbecue?”

  Marty shook her head. “I asked him when he signed my book. He said he was meeting Captain Corbin for lunch and couldn’t let him down. I told him Captain Corbin wasn’t real, Mr. McGurk had made him up, and he gave me that look, like Grandpa does. But then he smiled and patted my head and called me precocious. What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re too smart to be almost five years old,” Sherlock said. “Okay, kids, we’re on our own. What would you like for lunch? Barbecue or tacos?”

  Say tacos, please say tacos.

  “Is Papa coming with us?”

  “I don’t think so, Sean. He’s still meeting with his friends.”

  Sean looked up at her with big, dark eyes, his father’s eyes. “Mama, who was that man with the big candy bar? I saw you go after him.”

  Her eagle-eyed son. Sherlock looked him straight on and lied clean. “Turns out he was part of the show, not a problem. Come on, guys, let’s eat. I’m starving. What’s it going to be?”

  “Barbecue!” they shouted together.

  Oh well. Barbecue was fine, but truth was, she’d never met a taco she didn’t like. Sherlock wanted to call Dillon, tell him what happened, but how could she with Marty and Sean next to her elbow, all ears? She couldn’t be sure it was the man who’d broken into their house three nights ago. She wasn’t even sure he’d meant any harm. She tried to picture the man bending over Sean’s bed. She hemmed and hawed, going back and forth, until she wanted to kick herself. Of course it had to be the same man. Finally accepting it settled her. She couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think she’d seen him limp. No, don’t second-guess—it only meant his ankle may have healed in three days.

  Sean and Marty were flying high as kites on a windy day, each stuffing down pork ribs, barbecue sauce smeared all over their faces and T-shirts, comparing their books but not touching them, on Sherlock’s order, while she studied every single man she saw come toward the stand. When would Dillon get back?

  10

  * * *

  GATEWOOD MANSION

  Savich paused on the second-floor landing, listened. He looked down into the large entry hall. He was alone. The house was silent.

  He knew why the killer had looked directly at him and pumped his fist. Because someone else was standing at that window, waiting for him to return. He’d looked up, pumped his fist to show that person his pleasure, to signal his success.

  Had he avenged someone Octavia Ryan had prosecuted during her tenure as a federal prosecutor? Or had he killed her in revenge for failing to get an acquittal when she’d been a defense attorney? Savich remembered the man whistling, happy as a clam, as he’d hurled the oars out into the lake, one of them the murder weapon, with no remorse, no regret, pleased with what he’d done.

  Savich already knew one thing for sure. The killer hadn’t been Sala, no way. And Sala was a big man, strong, tough, and taller than Savich. This man was slight, no more than five foot eight. So where was Sala? Savich didn’t want to consider it, but he had to. Chances were good Sala was already dead. But that fist pump had been for killing Octavia Ryan, not Sala. Had he come back to kill Sala? Had he believed it necessary to kill him? Or was he collateral damage? Was his body in the water off the Gatewood dock, like the Piersons’ had been fifteen years before?

  Savich walked up a narrow set of stairs to the third floor. It was colder up there, a natural cold, the air still and silent, the light dim. It smelled old, musty, uncared for. It was a good place to hide. He shook his head at himself. Both the McCluens and the Piersons had been killed inside the front door, the reason, he thought, for the cold spot. Had the Piersons’ killer or killers known there was another Pierson child and searched for her up here? Was Albie Pierson still alive? Or had she died
on the streets of some city?

  He methodically opened each door along the narrow corridor—three small bedrooms, for maids, he supposed, and two old-fashioned bathrooms, all the rooms empty. Like in the second-floor rooms, there was no graffiti, only faded cream-colored walls and a thin coat of dust. The last door on his right, facing the lake, was locked. Interesting. Why lock this particular room? He shoved, but the door held. He knocked, felt foolish even as he called out, “Anyone in there?” He knocked again, louder, shook the doorknob.

  He heard something, a muffled sound, garbled, and a series of thumps, like shoes banging against wood. He knocked again, called out louder, “Is there anyone in there?”

  The muffled sounds were louder this time. More wild thumps and garbled noises. He stepped back and kicked right below the doorknob. The door shuddered but held. He kicked again harder, and the door flew inward, slammed against the wall.

  He stepped into the small room, momentarily blinded by the brilliant sunlight pouring in through the large front window. Like the other rooms, this one was also empty. He heard more violent kicking against wood. Savich saw the closet door shudder. He twisted the knob, but the door was locked. “Get back, I’m going to kick the door in.”

  The closet door gave way on the first kick but didn’t slam all the way inward. Someone was in the way. He got the door open enough to see inside the closet.

  Savich met Sala Porto’s eyes.

  11

  * * *

  Agent Sala Porto drank the entire soda Charlie handed him and ate a half dozen Oreo cookies Ty kept stashed in her truck. Finally, he wiped his hand across his mouth and chased it all down with a bottle of spring water. Blood matted his hair over his left temple, and his face was bruised. But Savich hadn’t found anything broken. He was sitting on the edge of the front steps of the house, the four of them gathered around him. No one had suggested they stay inside the house.