Twice Dead (32 page)

He'd murdered four more people. Like Thomas, she knew Krimakov would find them. It was as if he were somehow programmed to find Thomas and kill him. And her, too, of course. He would do anything, go anywhere, kill anyone in his way, to gain his objective.

How could he have killed his wife and her two children, his stepchildren? And his own son was in a burn hospital in Switzerland. Had that one truly been an accident? No, there were no accidents when it came to Krimakov. It was beyond terrifying.

She returned to her bed, curled up, hugging her arms around her knees. It was warm, very warm, but she was cold all the way to her bone marrow. Suddenly, she heard her mother's voice, sharp with impatience, telling her that if she even considered going out with Tim Hardaway—that juvenile delinquent—she would lock her in a closet for a month. Now she smiled with the memory; then, at sixteen, she had believed her life was over. She wondered what her mother would think of Adam. She smiled, then shivered a bit, remembering that hard, fast kiss. Her mother, she thought, would love Adam.

Suddenly, she heard a whispery sound. She jerked up in bed, her heart pounding, and looked toward the window. Again, that whispery brushing sound. Her heart pumping faster and faster now, she walked over and forced herself to look outside. There was an oak tree there, the end of one leaf-laden branch lightly brushing its leaves over the windowpane.

But he was close, she knew that. On her way back to bed, she kept looking over her shoulder out the bedroom window. She didn't want to speak to any more agents. How close was he?

How close?

 

NOW everyone in the world knew about Krimakov. Adam watched the old photograph of him flash on FOX and all the major networks. Then it was set beside the photograph the CIA artist had aged, showing what Krimakov would probably look like today. It was a fine job. With luck, it matched enough so he could be recognized. Becca hadn't remembered anything more, however, when she'd looked at the photos.

Everyone wanted to interview Becca Matlock, but no one knew where she was.

The New York cops wanted to talk to her, but this time, she didn't have to put up with Letitia Gordon. The FBI had told them to stuff it after the murder of the four FBI agents in NYU Hospital. There was a lot of name-calling, a lot of rancor, but at least she wasn't in the middle of it now. She'd been lost in the shuffle. She was safe.

As for Thomas Matlock, his identity had leaked quickly enough, but at least no one knew where he was, either. If there had been a leak, they knew media vans would be parked in the yard and microphones would be sticking through the windows of the house.

As it was, everything was quiet. The agents posted all around the house and the neighborhood checked in regularly, reporting nothing suspicious.

Ex-KGB agent Vasili Krimakov—who he was exactly, where he was at present, what his motives were, anything and everything that could possibly be tied to him—was discussed fully, exhaustively, on every news show, every talking-head show. Ex-CIA operatives, ex-FBI counter-terrorist agents, and three former presidential aides spoke authoritatively about him. The question was: Why did he want Thomas Matlock so badly? The question remained unanswered until there was some sort of anonymous release from Berlin about how Thomas Matlock had saved Kemper's life and in the process accidentally killed the wife of the Soviet agent, Vasili Krimakov, who'd been sent to present-day Belarus to assassinate Kemper. The press went wild. Larry King interviewed a former aide to President Carter who remembered perfectly and in great detail the incident when CIA Operative Thomas Matlock had a face-off with Krimakov in the faraway land, killed his wife by accident, and the resulting brouhaha with the Russians. No one else could seem to recall any of it, including President Carter himself, and everyone knew that President Carter remembered everything, including the number of rubber bands in his Oval Office desk drawer.

A United States Marine who had served with Thomas Matlock back in the seventies spoke authoritatively about how Thomas had refused to be intimidated by the enemy. Which enemy? Didn't matter, Thomas would go to hell and back before he'd ever break. This wasn't at all relevant, but nobody really cared. The bottom line was that all the folk interviewed were ex- or former somethings. The current FBI and CIA directors had put a seal on everything. The president and his staff weren't saying a word, at least officially. Everything was working as it had always worked. Speculation was rife, theories were rampant, but nothing could be proved.

As for Rebecca Matlock, the governor of New York was quoted as saying, “She was an excellent speechwriter with a flair for humor and irony. We miss her.” And then he'd rubbed his neck where Krimakov had shot him.

NYPD continued with their “No comment” when there was any question from the press about her. There was no more talk about her being an accomplice to the shooting of Governor Bledsoe. Thank goodness, Becca thought, that no one had found out about Letitia Gordon. She'd bet Detective Gordon would be glad to trash-talk her.

Every murder Krimakov had committed was brought out and examined publicly and exhaustively. There was public outrage.

But no one knew where Rebecca Matlock was.

No one knew where or really who Thomas Matlock was, but the world was coming to believe that he was a dashing, quite romantic James Bond sort of guy who had kept the world safe from the Russians and was now being hunted by a former KGB agent who didn't hesitate to murder people to draw him out.

Becca wondered aloud later to Adam about what the United States Marine had said about Thomas on TV. Adam, who was cleaning his Delta Elite at the kitchen table, said, “It means he got paid maybe five hundred bucks to say something so the ratings would spike.”

“The guy said Thomas would never break. What does that mean?”

Adam shrugged. “Who cares? I hope Krimakov is watching. Talk about misdirection. Maybe he'll come to believe that Thomas is invincible.” Adam snorted, then buffed the handle of his pistol. “We couldn't do it better if we scripted it ourselves.”

“I wonder if Detective Gordon still thinks I'm somehow responsible for all of it.”

“I think once she makes up her mind, it'd take an avalanche to change it. Yeah, she still thinks you're a big part of it. I spoke to Detective Morales. I could see him shaking his head over the phone. He's depressed, but glad you're safe now.”

“It was the murder of Linda Cartwright that got everybody going.”

“Yes. She was an innocent. A very nice middle-class woman. Everyone wants him to fry for what he did to her. Don't forget that older woman in Ithaca. Another innocent. Krimakov has a lot to answer for.”

“Does anyone know yet how Dick McCallum was involved with him?”

“Yeah. Hatch found out that McCallum's mother had an extra fifty thousand bucks in a checking account.”

“That doesn't seem like so much money if you have to die to get it. Did she tell the police or Hatch if Dick told her anything?”

Adam shook his head, lifted his gun, looked at a face that needed a shave in the reflection of the barrel. “Nope. She was upset about it, but he wouldn't tell her anything, except to keep the money quiet, which she did until Hatch tracked her down and got her to talk.”

“The FBI are coming soon.”

“Yeah. Don't worry, both Thomas and I will be there.”

She smiled at him. “That's nice, Adam, but unnecessary. I'm not a child or helpless, you know. And I do know Agents Cobb and Hawley, who's got hemorrhoids.”

He grinned up at her. “Nope, it's Cobb with the hemorrhoids. Now, you were helpless, don't try to rewrite the past, and I don't care what you say, I'll be there.”

“I should probably go dig out my Coonan and buff it.”

“I'd just as soon never see that pistol anywhere near you again.”

“Scared you but good, didn't I?”

Thomas appeared in the kitchen doorway, frowning. “This is odd, but a man named Tyler McBride called Gaylan Woodhouse's office with the message that you, Becca, were to call him immediately. Nothing more, only that instruction.”

“I don't understand,” Becca said, “but of course I'll call him. What's going on?”

Adam was on his feet in an instant. “I don't like this. Why would McBride call the director of the CIA?”

“I'll find out, Adam. He's probably really worried and wants to make sure I'm okay.”

Adam said, “I don't want you to call Tyler McBride. I don't want him anywhere near you. I'll call him, find out what he wants. If he wants reassurance, I'll give it to him.”

“Look, Adam, you told me he was really scared for me. He wants to hear my voice. I'm not going to tell him where I am. Now, I'm calling him. Let it go.”

“Why don't you two stop bickering?” Thomas said. “Call the man, Becca. If something's wrong, Adam, she'll tell us.”

“I still don't like it. Another thing: I've been thinking that maybe you would be safer at my house. At least you could stay there some of the time.”

Her left eyebrow went up. “Where do you live, Mr. Carruthers?”

“About three miles down the road.”

She stared at him. “Then why are you staying here? Why aren't you going home at all?”

“I'm needed here,” he said, studiously rubbing the barrel of his Delta Elite to an even higher shine. “Besides, I do go home. Where do you think I get clean clothes?”

“Get over it, Adam,” she said, and went to get her small address book.

“Use my private line,” Thomas said. “It's untraceable. Adam, your gun looks good.”

“You'll like my house,” Adam called after her. “It's a showcase, it's the prettiest place you've ever seen. Plants don't like me, but everything else does. I have a housekeeper come in twice a week and she even makes me casseroles.”

Becca turned to face him. “What kind?”

“Tuna, ham and sweet potato, whatever. Do you like casseroles?”

“You bet,” she said.

He heard her laugh as she walked away.

He wanted to hear what she said to Tyler McBride, he really did, but he didn't move. Neither did Thomas, who stood there leaning against the refrigerator, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I'm giving her privacy,” Adam said. “It's tough.”

“Yeah, and you want her to think about your house, don't you?”

“It's a very nice house—an old Georgian brick two-story, lovely yard that I pay a big chunk to keep looking good. Remember I told you how my mom talked me into buying the property some four years ago, told me it was a good investment. She was right.”

Thomas said, “Parents usually are.”

Adam grunted and looked at his reflection in the gun barrel. “McBride wants her, that's why he's called. He wants her to know that he's still laying claim. I don't trust him, Thomas. He'll use Sam if he has to. He can't have her.”

Thomas said, grinning now, “I can see the scowl on your face in the barrel of the gun. No, more than a scowl.”

Adam grunted. “How about seriously pissed off?”

What was she saying to Tyler McBride? Worse, what was he saying to her?

TWENTY-FOUR

In her father's study, the door closed, Becca was leaning on the big mahogany desk, so pale, so off balance she felt transparent. She knew that if she looked in a mirror, she wouldn't see anything at all. “No, Tyler,” she said again. “I can't believe this.”

“Becca, it's happened. Sam is gone. Gone from his bed when I looked in on him this morning. There was this note pinned to his blanket that said I had to call you, that I could get to you by calling the office of the CIA director. So I did. And now you've called.”

“Sam can't be gone,” Becca said, but she knew that he was, she knew it.

“He wrote in the note that I wasn't to say a word to anyone, not the local cops, not anyone, only you. He wrote that he'd kill Sam if I said anything.”

She heard his breathing hitch before he said, “Thank God you called, Becca. What am I going to do?”

Becca heard the awful deadening fear in his voice, the anger, the helplessness.

“Don't call Sheriff Gaffney, Tyler. Don't. Let me think.”

He nearly yelled, “Of course I won't call Sheriff Gaffney. Do you think I'm nuts?” Then he added, more calmly now, “He wrote that you had to come to Riptide.”

She felt a leap of fear, then said, “Wait a second, Tyler, let me get Adam.”

“No!” She nearly dropped the phone he'd yelled so loud. Then she heard him draw a deep breath. “No, Becca, please, not yet. He says if you tell anyone—including your father—he'll kill Sam. I didn't even know you had a father until the media went nuts over you and him. Becca, the guy's murdered four more people. He's got Sam. Do you hear me? That maniac's got Sam!”

“I know, I know. Read me the entire note, Tyler.”

He was breathing hard, and she knew he was trying to get control. Finally, his voice more steady, he read: “‘Mr. McBride, you will speak as soon as possible to Rebecca Matlock. To find her, call the office of the director of the CIA. Tell them to inform her that she is to call you immediately, that a life is at stake. Then you will tell her to come to Riptide. You will tell her not to tell anyone, including her father, or else your son is dead. You don't want him to end up like Linda Cartwright. You have twenty-four hours.' ”

“How did he sign it?”

“He didn't sign any name at all. What I read to you, that's it. Becca, what am I to do? You know what he did to Linda Cartwright, what he's done to all those other people. Look at what he did to you. All of Maine is up in arms about Cartwright's murder.” He waited a beat, then yelled, “Aren't you listening to me? A Russian agent has got my son!”