Twice Dead (76 page)

A psychopathic killer who is an illusionist, possibly a telepath. He had never seen anything like it, and he hoped he never would again.

He'd just finished telling all the agents about the Ghouls, detailing what Marilyn had told him and what he himself had seen. If they didn't believe him, they were cool enough to keep it to themselves.

One agent, a friend of Virginia Cosgrove's, didn't doubt a single word. As they were debarking from the jet in Bar Harbor, she said, “Virginia told me some things Marilyn Warluski had told her. It was terrifying, Mr. Savich.”

“Just Savich, Ms. Rodriguez. I'm very sorry about Agent Cosgrove.”

“We all are, sir.” Then she managed a grin. “Just Lois, Savich.”

“You got it.

“The thing is, guys,” he said a few minutes later to all of them, “if you see her or him again”—he waved the artist's drawing under all their noses—“don't play any games. Don't even think about trying to take her alive. Don't trust anything you see happen, fire without hesitation, and shoot to kill. Now, I'm going to the photo shop, make sure there's no confusion. Then we'll get together at the local police department and get everything set up.”

He wondered if the Ghouls would be with her, with Tammy as their head acolyte, their priestess of death.

He was becoming melodramatic. All he really knew as he walked into the photo shop, Hamlet's Pics, on Wescott Avenue, was that he was glad to his soul that Sherlock wasn't here, that she was at home, safe with Sean.

He spoke to the photo shop employee, Teddi Tyler—spelled with an “i” he was told—to verify what he'd said to the local police. Teddi repeated that the woman whose photo Savich was showing him had indeed been in the shop, just yesterday, late afternoon. He'd called the police right away.

“What did she want?”

“She had some film she wanted developed.”

Savich felt his heart pound, deep and slow, and it was all he could do to remain calm and smooth. They were so close now. “Did you develop the film, Mr. Tyler?”

“Yes, sir, Agent Savich. The police told me to go ahead and develop it and hold the photos for the FBI.”

“When did she say she wanted to pick the photos up?”

“This afternoon, at two o'clock. I told her that would be fine.”

“Did she look like she was in good health, Mr. Tyler?”

“She was sort of pale, but looked good other than that. It was pretty cold yesterday so she was all bundled up in a thick coat, a big scarf around her neck and a wool ski cap, but I still recognized her, no problem.”

“Did you make any comment to her about how she looked familiar?”

“Oh, no, Agent Savich. I was really cool.”

Yeah, I bet, Savich thought, praying that he'd been cool enough not to alert Tammy he was on to her. One thing—Teddi Tyler was still alive, and that meant Tammy hadn't felt threatened, he hoped. Everything he'd told Savich so far was exactly what he'd told the local cops.

“I want you to think carefully now, Mr. Tyler. When she handed you the film, which hand did she use?”

Teddi frowned, furrowing his forehead into three deep lines. “Her left hand,” he said at last. “Yes, it was her left hand. She had her purse on a long strap hanging over her left shoulder. It was kind of clumsy.”

“Did you ever see her right hand?”

Again Teddi went into a big frown. “I'm sorry, Agent Savich,” he said finally, shaking his head, “I don't remember. All I'm sure about is that she stayed all bundled up—again no surprise, since it was so cold.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tyler. Now, a special agent will take your place behind the counter. Agent Briggs will be in soon and you can go over procedures with him.” Savich raised his hand, seeing that Teddi Tyler wanted to argue. “There's no way you are going to face this woman again, Mr. Tyler. She's very dangerous, even to us. Now, show me those photos.”

Savich took the photo envelope from Teddi and moved away from the counter to the glass front windows. The sun was shining brightly for a November day. It didn't look like it was forty degrees outside. He slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the glossy 4x6 photos. There were only six of them.

He looked at one after the other, and then looked again. He didn't understand. All of them were beach shots, undoubtedly taken in the Caribbean. Two were taken in the early morning, two when the sun was high, and two at sunset. None of them was very well done—well, that made sense since she had only one arm—but what was the point? All beach shots, no people in any of them. What was this about?

He held the photos up to Teddi. “Did she say anything about the photos? What they were? Anything at all?”

“Yeah, she said they were vacation photos she wanted to show her roommate. Said her roommate didn't believe her when she'd said how beautiful it was down in the Caribbean. She had to prove it.”

If Tammy hadn't lied, then Marilyn was alive. She wanted Marilyn to admire the beaches in the Caribbean.

He told Teddi Tyler to take off as soon as Agent Briggs arrived. As for Briggs, he was a natural retailer, experienced in undercover jobs. He was fast, a good judge of people's behavior. Savich trusted him. Briggs knew how dangerous Tammy was, knew everything Savich knew.

They had three hours to get it all set up. There were three agents undercover near Marilyn's boyfriend's house just off Newport Drive. He doubted they would see either Marilyn or Tammy at the boyfriend's house. Of course not, Savich thought, that would be too easy.

Savich left, drew the salty air deep into his lungs, and called Simon Russo on his way to the meet with the other agents. He hadn't spoken to Russo or Lily in nearly thirty hours. He knew they were all right; otherwise Hoyt would have yelled out. Still, he wanted to know what was happening. He was worried about Lily, just couldn't help it. He knew Simon would protect her with his life, knew Hoyt and the Eureka police were with them all the way. But still, she was his sister, and he loved her deeply. He didn't want anything to happen to her. When he thought of what she'd already endured, he felt rage in his gut.

The more he thought about it, the more Savich worried.

He pulled his leather jacket collar up around his ears and dialed. Simon's cell phone didn't answer. Savich wasn't about to second-guess himself and try to believe that the battery was dead. He immediately put in a call to Clark Hoyt.

TWENTY-THREE

 

Clark Hoyt answered his cell phone on the third ring. “Savich? Good thing you called. We can't find Simon or Lily. Our guys have been sticking close to them, but when Lily wanted to go to the cemetery, everyone decided they'd be safe there, and so we agreed to give them some privacy. Savich, they went after them in the cemetery!

“When they didn't show up in an hour at Bender's Café in Hemlock Bay, my agents called me, then drove to the cemetery. We found Simon's rental car and one of the Frasiers' cars in the parking lot. There weren't any other cars around. We know Lily visited her daughter's grave because the daffodils she'd bought were there.”

Hoyt paused.

“What is it, Clark? What else did you find?”

“Some blood on the front seats, Savich, just a trace, but there was blood on the parking lot cement, a good bit more. We're testing it. We screwed up, Savich. I'm sorry. We'll find them, I swear it to you.”

Savich felt fear twisting in his belly, but when he spoke, his voice was controlled. “The fact that you found the Frasiers' car there as well as Simon's—were the Frasiers taken, too? Or were the Frasiers a part of it and just left their car there? If they plan to come back, then why would they leave their car next to Simon's—that's a sure giveaway that they were involved.”

“That's what we think.”

“At least you didn't find them dead. They've been taken. By whom?”

“We're trying to track down the Frasiers, but nothing yet. They must be with Simon and Lily. Lieutenant Dobbs and I went to the hospital to see Tennyson Frasier. He claimed he didn't know where his parents were. Seemed to me that he really didn't care one way or the other. When we told him Lily was gone, I thought he'd go nuts. This Dr. Rossetti—you remember, the shrink who wanted to treat Lily when she was still in the hospital after the accident? The guy Lily didn't like? Well, he was there with Tennyson. He got all huffy, said Tennyson was a fine man, a great doctor, and his wife was a bitch and didn't deserve him. He then gave Tennyson three happy pills while we were watching. I'll tell you, Savich, I think Tennyson really doesn't know anything about the disappearance.”

Savich was hearing everything, but he wasn't thinking a whole lot in that instant. He was flat-out scared. He wanted to leave Bar Harbor and fly immediately out to California, but he couldn't. He simply couldn't leave. It was that simple and that final. He said, “I'm not sure what I think right at this moment, Clark. And I can't break free. I'm up to my eyeballs right now.” He drew a deep breath. “Actually, we're about to confront a psychopathic killer right here in Bar Harbor, Maine, and I'm in charge.”

“Look, Savich, there are a whole bunch of us on this. We'll find out who took them.”

Yeah, yeah, Savich thought, then said, “If this Olaf Jorgenson is behind this, we're talking about a lot of resources, like a private Gulfstream jet here, with flight plans out of the country. It won't be hard to find them.”

“We're already on that. I'll call you when we get something. Ah, good luck in Bar Harbor.”

“Thank you. Keep me posted.”

“Yes, I will. Look, Savich, I'm sorry. I was supposed to keep them covered, keep them safe. I'll do everything I can with this. I'll call you every hour.”

“No, Hoyt, call me only if it's an emergency for the next three hours. Otherwise, I'll get back to you when I can.” Clark Hoyt didn't know what nuts was, Savich thought, as he punched off his cell phone. He had to call Sherlock, tell her what was going on. Thank God she was home and safe. He didn't want her to hear about Simon and Lily from Hoyt or Lieutenant Dobbs. He had two hours and forty minutes left to set up the operation. He walked over to Firefly Lane to the Bar Harbor Police Department. He knew he simply had to try to stop thinking about Lily and Simon now. He had to concentrate on killing Tammy Tuttle.

He wanted to press his fingers against the pulse point in her neck and not feel a thing.

 

LILY heard moaning, then a series of gasping curses that seemed to go on forever. Those curses sounded strange, long and drawn out. Then she heard crying. Crying?

No, she wasn't crying. Nor was she cursing. She felt movement, but it wasn't tossing her around; it was just there, all around her, subtle, faintly pulsing.

Simon. Where was Simon?

She opened her eyes slowly, not really wanting to because her head already hurt and she feared it would crack open when she opened her eyes.

There was a woman moaning again. Crying, then more of those soft, slurred curses.

It was Charlotte. Lily remembered now. She'd shot Charlotte, but she was still alive. And hurting. Lily at least felt some satisfaction. If her head hadn't hurt quite so badly, she would have smiled. She hadn't saved herself or Simon, but she had managed to inflict some damage.

She moved her head a little bit. There was a brief whack of pain, but she could handle it. She saw that she was sprawled in a wide leather seat, some sort of belt strapping her in. It cut into her belly and didn't hurt much, just a little tug, and that was a relief.

She saw Simon was seated next to her. He was strapped in, too. She realized then that he was holding her hand on top of his leg. He was looking toward Charlotte.

“Simon.”

He made no sudden movement, just slowly turned his head to look down at her. He smiled, actually smiled, and said, “I knew I should have left you at home.”

“And miss all this excitement? No way. I'm so glad you're alive. Where are we?”

“We're about thirty thousand miles up, a private jet, I'd say. How are you doing, sweetie?”

“I don't feel much like a sweetie right now. We're in an airplane? So that's that funny feeling, like we're in some sort of moving cocoon. Oh, dear, I guess maybe we're on our way to Sweden?”

“I guess it's possible, but why did you say it like you already knew.”

“When those guys were chasing me down the beach, they shouted to me. They're foreign, very stilted English, Swedish, I think. I thought then that Mr. Olaf Jorgenson had gotten tired of waiting to have things done for him.”

“You're right about their being Swedish.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “You said you were running down the beach to get away from them?”

She told him what had happened, finding the trail back up, finding him unconscious, and then about Charlotte.

“If Charlotte hadn't been there, we would have gotten away and I would have moved us to the Eureka jail, no visitors allowed.”

He picked up her hand and held it. “That crying and cursing—it's Charlotte Frasier. The pilot, who also seems to be a medic, has been working on her. You shot her through her right arm. Pity, but she'll be all right. Before you came awake, she was screaming that you were an in-grate, after all she'd done for you. She said she was going to kill you herself.” He didn't add that she'd punctuated everything she said with the foulest language he'd heard in a long time.

She was thoughtful for a long moment, then said, “Are you all right?”