The Enforcer (32 page)

She had sworn to herself she would never forgive him, but that was a sin, wasn
’t it? And here he was, just as he’d sworn he would be, honoring Terrence and working to acquit her of her charges. What if she’d been wrong about Tobias? What if he wasn’t the traitor she’d judged him to be but, rather, an agent who’d honestly fallen in love with her and now risked his career to prove it?

Her knees shook as she rose to approach the altar rail, kneeling as close to Terrence
’s urn as possible. Father Nesbit briefly blocked her view of it as he stood before her. “The body of Christ. The bread of heaven,” he murmured, placing a wafer in her cupped hands. His robes rustled as he moved to the next parishioner. 

The urn
’s clean lines and simple design were elements Terrence would have approved of, Dylan mused. Father Nesbit had made the perfect selection. But what were the odds, she wondered, that she would get to disperse the contents herself, on her own land, as Terrence had wished? Again the tantalizing hope at the prospect of being set free—regaining her privacy, her reputation, possibly more—pulsed through her.

Forgive Burke
. Terrence’s words echoed in her head.

If his efforts resulted in her freedom, then of course she would forgive him. Clinging to her resentment these past few days had been hard enough.

“The blood of Christ. The cup of salvation.”

As Dylan sipped from the goblet, the priest took a scrap from the pocket in his robe and pressed it into her hand. Startled, Dylan read the note as she withdrew from the railing.
Dr. Richardson is in the sacristy. Please speak to him while you have the chance.

As she looked up, the priest caught her eyes over the head of the next parishioner and, with a nod, urged her toward the tiny room at the back of the church, accessed via a door beside the pulpit.

Dylan glanced back at her empty seat, then at the rear of the church where Tobias had abandoned his post. Cal Fallon’s attention had wandered. With the federal agents right outside, it wasn’t as though she were doing anything wrong or trying to escape. After all, she wouldn’t even leave the building. And she knew it would ease Father Nesbit’s mind if she spoke with her psychiatrist, even briefly.

Whispering to Sergeant Lee that she
’d be back shortly, Dylan cut through the line of people waiting to kneel and slipped through the door into the room where the altar cloths and priestly robes and sacraments were stored. The Spartan room had been furnished with a throw rug, a sofa where the priest was known to catch a nap between services, and a narrow desk and chair. Kevin Richardson leapt from the sofa as Dylan approached him.

“
Kevin,” she exclaimed, noting that his unkempt hair appeared even more disheveled than usual. He wore a button-up shirt that looked like it had been slept in and a wild-eyed expression she had never seen on his face before. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you participating in the service?” she asked him.

“
Oh.” He huffed a nervous laugh and waved his hands to ward off the invitation. “Too many people. I tend to get claustrophobic. But it’s good to see you, Dylan.” Wiping his hand on his slacks first, he extended her a moist handshake.

“
Well, it was good of you to come.”

“
Of course. Terrence was a wonderful man. I didn’t want to miss it. But, actually, I’m here for two more reasons.”

“
What reasons?” she asked.

“
Well, first, Father Nesbit has expressed grave concern about you. He’s been asking me to visit you for days now.”

“
And the second reason?”

He drew a strained breath.
“The FBI have asked me to evaluate you, as well,” he somberly admitted.

Dylan
’s hopes plummeted. If the FBI wanted Richardson’s evaluation then that had to mean she was headed back to jail. Not only that but, considering the wire tap in her breast pocket, Palmer was probably listening to whatever she might say.
Anything you say or do can be held against you
, he’d warned her. How could he expect her to be forthcoming while wearing a wire tap?      

“
I watched you surrender on television,” Richardson volunteered. “I can’t believe how well you’ve held up. How are you…?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “How are you doing, really?” he asked.

He struck her as obviously uncomfortable with the task the FBI had foisted upon him, and
no wonder. So was she. They weren’t exactly sequestered in his cozy office. Nor was their conversation a private one, though Richardson didn’t know that, and she saw no reason to tell him. “I think I’m fine, really.” She resolved to say as little as possible, to thank him for his concern, and promptly excuse herself. 

“
I’m sorry, this isn’t the best place for us to talk,” he admitted, casting his gaze around the room almost nervously. He gestured at the couch. “Would you care to sit down?”

“
No thanks.” If the FBI had spoken with him, perhaps he knew more than she about Ackerman’s confession. “Did the FBI tell you the latest news?”

“
No, what news is that?”

“
Sergeant Ackerman confessed to planting evidence on my property.”

Richardson sent her a frozen stare.
“Ivan? He confessed to that?” He started patting down his pockets in an obvious and frantic search for a pack of cigarettes.

“
I think that might absolve me of Nolan’s murder, don’t you?” she asked.

“
Yes it might,” Richardson muttered, looking deeply distracted. He found the pack that he was after, pulled it out, and tapped loose a cigarette. “Would you step outside with me while I have a smoke?” he begged. “It’s been over an hour, and I’m a wreck without nicotine.”

The reason for his edginess became suddenly clear. Dylan
’s tension eased. “No, thanks.” She looked around. “Besides, there’s no door.”

“
There is,” he said, “just down those stairs.” He pointed to a door leading to the basement.

She balked at joining him.
“I really ought to go back to the service.”

“
In a minute, Dylan. I promised the FBI that I’d evaluate you. It’ll only take a sec. Come with me.” He started down the basement steps without waiting to see if she would follow.

Dylan hesitated. If Palmer had ordered this evaluation, then she might as well get it over with, she decided. With a tisk of her tongue, she chased Kevin down the steps into the dark cellar carved into the shale mountain and found him unlatching an iron door. Its hinges gave a grating sound as he swung it open, admitting a blast of damp, chilly air.

Dylan’s eyes widened as she beheld the south side of the mountain. A shallow ledge was all that separated them from the boulder-strewn slope that dropped a hundred feet or more to the rooftops of houses built below. No wonder she’d never seen the door before.

Richardson ignored the drizzle to put one foot on the slick-looking ledge and light his cigarette. His shaking hands riveted her attention. Closing his eyes, he took several deep draughts that made the tip of his cigarette glow red.

“Nasty habit,” he apologized, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Just give me five minutes, Dylan. Then you’re free.”

Dylan gave another thought to the device in her breast pocket. Should she tell Kevin about it or just be mindful of her own words?
“Five minutes,” she agreed as the organ upstairs began to play softly. “What do they want you to ask me?”

***

Toby peeked out the front of the church, only to draw back into the nave when he spied all four FBI agents on the church steps, hiding from the rain. Palmer had one hand clamped over his earpiece. The other agents eyed him intently. Toby had a hunch they would cart Dylan off as soon as the service was over—leaving him no opportunity to talk to her. 

The organ music thundered out a closing hymn. In the next instant, Father Nesbit pushed into the narthex. Catching sight of Toby, he shot him a forced smile as he propped the doors,
then turned to greet the first parishioner.

Toby looked for Dylan over the heads of the exiting swarm. His gaze plumbed every corner of the crowded space without lighting on her. And with every second that he expected to see her burnished head and fair face and didn
’t, his worry increased. Sergeants Morrison and Lee hovered next to the urn holding Terrence’s ashes, but no Dylan.

He tried to slip past the priest, but Father Nesbit caught him by his sleeve.
“Not now,” he pleaded, unexpectedly.

“
I have to talk to Dylan, Father. Where’d she go?” Toby demanded, searching the crowded room again. She couldn’t have vanished into thin air.

“
She’s getting help,” the priest replied.

Whatever that meant. Tugging free, Toby ignored him, squeezing back into the sanctuary, only to run straight into Cal a second time.

“Out,” the sheriff insisted. With one hand on Toby’s shoulder, the other on the butt of his service pistol, he forced Toby backward.

Finding himself on the receiving end of several glares, Toby realized he
’d have to take on the entire militia to speak to Dylan in the church. Conceding defeat, he stormed outside to confront the agents. “I don’t see her in there,” he informed Palmer. “Where’d she go?”

Palmer, still listening to his earpiece, threw him a distracted glance and didn
’t answer. His three subordinates ignored Toby completely.

The inkling that Palmer was listening to Dylan—where ever the hell she might be—sent Toby
’s thoughts into overdrive. What the hell? They must have wired Dylan in advance of the memorial, but why, and for what, unless… The suspicion that they’d manipulated a meeting between her and Richardson knifed through him. That meant Richardson was here and Dylan was with him, somewhere in the building, since the agents hadn’t left.

Vaulting off the steps, Toby stepped into the spitting rain to circle the exterior of the church.

From up on the hill, Jackson’s voice floated down through the car’s lowered window. “Hey. You need help?”

“
Dylan’s missing!” Toby called back, only to curse his actions when a curious journalist took note of his reply and started following him.

Waving Jackson around the front of the church, Toby passed the line of stained glass windows to approach the attached building in the back. Once there, he drew to a frustrated halt, aware that the journalist was now filming him. It was just like he
’d told Jackson earlier, no rear door existed.

So where could Dylan be?

***

“
I suppose I should ask if you’ve had any more memories about the night General Treyburn was murdered.” Richardson’s dark eyes pinned Dylan through the lenses of his glasses. The tremor in his fingers seemed to subside as he drew deeply on his cigarette.

“
No.” She shook her head, unwilling to discuss what little she did remember. “None at all.” Was it her imagination or did he look a bit relieved?

Richardson hesitated. He sucked on his cigarette and exhaled.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of dissociative identity disorder,” he said finally, gently.

“
Of course.” He’d mentioned it to her once before, quite tentatively.

“
You’ll need other clinicians to confirm or deny it, but—whether you agree with my diagnosis or not—I’m telling you right now, dissociative identity disorder is your best defense.” He sent her a pitying look while exhaling through his nostrils. “Without it, you’ll be sent to a traditional prison if convicted. If you go with the disorder, you’ll be put into a mental institution and treated well, as you should be.”

Dylan
’s heart began to thud. The blood in her ears gave a muted roar. “That’s your diagnosis?” she asked him stiffly. She couldn’t believe what he was telling her. He’d all but consigned her to a lifetime of incarceration.

“
Yes, it is,” he said after the slightest hesitation.

“
Why didn’t you tell me this before?” She would never have gone to him in the first place if he had so little faith in her sanity.

He stopped puffing, started to say something, then changed his mind with a shake of his head.

“This discussion is over,” Dylan declared. Stepping into the doorway and braving the immense drop only feet in front of her, she pushed her face into his and hissed. “I will never plead insanity. Do you know why? Because I
know
I’m innocent!”

He abruptly ground his cigarette butt into the wall, snuffing it out.
“Are you certain?” he asked, his expression completely unreadable. 

The suspicion that he
’d told the FBI that her amnesia was due to a psychological disorder filled her with betrayal. “I was
drugged
that night,” she insisted, balling her hands into fists.

He shook his head almost pityingly.
“In the same way that you were framed?” he scoffed. “Who would do that to you Dylan?”