Twice Dead (82 page)

She heard Olaf cursing, still helpless on the floor. He was screaming at his bodyguards to tell him if he'd killed her yet.

The bodyguards shouted something, but again it was in Swedish so she didn't understand. They didn't come after her, evidently because he wanted to have this pleasure all for himself, and they knew it.

She began moving on her elbows, behind the queen now, toward the great front door, behind the bishop. She looked out toward Olaf. One of his bodyguards was bending over him, handing him his own gun.

The bodyguard picked Olaf up and set him again in his wheelchair, then turned the chair toward her. And now Olaf aimed that gun right at her.

She rolled behind the knight. She wasn't any farther than ten feet from the front doors.

“I like this game,” Olaf shouted and fired. The bishop toppled, shattering as it fell, falling over her ankles. She felt a stab of pain, but she could still move her feet. She moved solidly behind the knight and stilled.

Olaf shouted again. Then he laughed. Another shot, obscenely loud in the silence, and she saw a huge chunk of marble floor, not three feet from her, spew in all directions. He fired again and again, sending the white king careening into the queen.

Lily was on her knees behind the rook now, close to the front door.

Another shot whistled past her ear, and she flattened herself. One of the bodyguards yelled and ran toward her. Why?

Then she heard more shots, at least six of them, but they weren't from Olaf or the bodyguard; they were coming through the front door. She heard yelling, men's voices, and pounding on the door until it crashed inward.

Olaf and the bodyguards were shooting toward the door.

Lily lurched to her feet, lifted a huge shard of the bishop's white miter, ran toward Olaf, and hurled it at his wheelchair.

It hit him. Olaf, his gun firing wildly, straight up now, went over backward. His bodyguards ran as policemen fired at them from the open front door.

More gunfire. So much shouting, so much noise, too much. Simon was there, just behind the third policeman. He was alive.

There was sudden silence. The gun storm was over. Lily ran to Simon, hurled herself against him. His arms tightened around her.

She raised her head and smiled up at him. “I'm glad you came when you did. It was pretty dicey there for a while.”

She heard Olaf screaming, spewing profanity. Then he was quiet.

Simon said in her ear, “It's over, Lily, all over. Olaf isn't going anywhere. It's time to worry about yourself. You're bleeding a little. I want you to hold still; there's an ambulance coming.”

“I'm all right. It's just cuts from the flying marble. You're wet, Simon,” she said. “Why are you wet?”

“I was careless. Be still.”

“No, tell me. How did you get away from them? What happened?”

He realized she couldn't let it go, and he slowed himself, keeping his voice calm and low. “I dove into the canal to get away, but I couldn't. Then there were all sorts of cops there to pull me out of the canal and take care of Alpo, Nikki, and Ian. Nobody was killed. They're all in the local lockup. It was your brother, Lily. He called a friend in Stockholm who happened to have two brothers living here in Gothenburg. The police were watching the mansion, saw Ian and the boys stuff me in the car, called backup, and followed.”

“I want to meet those brothers,” she said. For the first time, she felt like smiling, and so she did, a lovely smile that was filled with hope.

TWENTY-EIGHT

 

Late Saturday night, it was colder in Washington than it had been in Stockholm. The temperature had plummeted early in the day and the skies had opened up and sprinkled a dusting of snow all over the East Coast. Lily was finally in bed, her shoulder and back no longer throbbing from the shards of marble that had struck her. “Nothing important here—all surface pain,” the Swedish doctor had said, and she'd wanted to slug him. Now she would probably have more scars.

When she'd said this on a sigh to Simon, he'd said, as he'd eased some pillows around her on the roomy first-class seat, that he liked banged-up women. The scars showed character.

“No,” Lily had said as she let him ease a thin airplane blanket to her chin, “what it shows is that the woman has bad judgment.”

He'd laughed as he'd kissed her. Then he'd smoothed the hair off her forehead and kissed her again, not laughing this time.

Then Simon had cupped her face in his palm and said very quietly, since the movie was over and everyone was trying to sleep in the dimly lit cabin, “I think we're going to make a fine team, Lily. You, me, and No Wrinkles Remus.”

Lily snuggled down under the comforter. She hoped Simon was doing better than she was. Like her, he'd been ready to fall flat on his face from exhaustion. She hoped he was sleeping.

Actually, Simon was turning slowly over in the too-short cot, not wanting to roll himself accidentally off onto the floor. He had managed to get the blanket carefully wrapped around his feet, no easy thing, since his feet were off the cot and on the big side. He'd taken up temporary residence in Sean's room, down the hall from Lily, since the baby was still with Mrs. Savich. A precaution, Dillon had said as he'd helped Dane Carver, a new special agent in his unit, carry in the narrow army cot that would be Simon's bed. He'd announced to both men that he didn't care if he had to fit himself into Sean's crib, if that's what it took to get to sleep.

Simon knew she was okay, just down the hall. Not near enough to him for the time being, but Simon had plans to change that. He could easily picture her in his brownstone, could picture how he'd redo one of those large upstairs bedrooms to make it her workroom. Great light in that room, exactly right for her.

Simon was smiling as he breathed in the scent of Sean. Nice scent, but he would have preferred to be in the guest room with Lily, in her bed. He'd always been a patient man, which, he supposed, was a good thing, since he'd only known Lily for a little more than two weeks.

As for Lily, she didn't know why she couldn't sleep. It was after midnight in Washington, morning in Sweden. But she and Simon had been in Sweden such a short time, her body had no clue what time of day it was. She was beyond exhaustion, yet she couldn't sleep.

She was still very worried about her brother. Tammy Tuttle hadn't shown up, hadn't come after Dillon, and both her brother and Sherlock were frustrated and on edge, at their wits' end.

On Friday afternoon, as announced, Dillon had taken a taxi to the airport and checked in for a flight to Texas. Then, at the last minute, he'd deplaned and slipped back into the house in Georgetown.

Now it was Saturday night, well beyond the deadline, and Lily knew there were still agents covering the house. Jimmy Maitland wasn't taking any chances, and the very sophisticated house alarm was set.

Lily hoped Dillon and Sherlock were sleeping better than she was. She knew they missed Sean. When they'd all come up to bed, they'd automatically turned to go to Sean's room.

She rolled onto her side and sucked in her breath at a sudden jab of pain. She didn't want to take any more pain pills. She closed her eyes and saw that huge room again, its walls covered with her grandmother's paintings. So many to be returned to museums all over the world. Olaf Jorgenson and his son would not be able to stop it. Ian would be in jail for a very long time. Olaf was in the hospital, in very bad shape.

After a good deal of time, she was finally floating toward sleep, when her brain clicked on full alert and her eyes flew open. She'd heard something. Not Simon or Dillon or Sherlock moving around, something that wasn't right.

Maybe it was nothing at all, a phantom whisper from her exhausted brain or only a puff of wind that had sent a branch sweeping against the bedroom window. Yes, the sound was outside, not in her bedroom. Maybe it was in Simon's bedroom. Had he awakened?

Lily continued to wait, gritty eyes staring around the dark room, listening.

She started to relax again when she heard a creak. A slight pressure on the oak floor could cause a creak, but it was there and it was close. In the air, no longer heard, but she still felt it. Lily waited, straining to hear, her heart pounding now.

The scattered carpets covering the oak floors would mask any creaks, make someone walking hard to hear.

Lily lurched upright, straining to see. Too late, she saw a shadow, moving fast, and something coming down at her. She felt a deadening pain like a sharp knife driving into her skull.

She fell back onto the pillow. Before she passed out, she saw a face over her, a woman's face, and she knew whose face it was. The mouth whispered, “Hi, little sister.”

 

SHERLOCK couldn't sleep. Dillon's arm was heavy over her chest, and he was close and warm, his familiar scent in the air she breathed, but it didn't help. Her brain wouldn't turn off; it just kept moving, going over and over what they knew about Tammy, what they imagined but didn't know.

When she couldn't stand it anymore, Sherlock eased away from him, got out of bed, and pulled on her old blue wool robe. She wore socks to keep her feet warm against the oak floor.

She had to check the house again, though she'd already checked it three times, and Dillon had checked probably another three. She had to be sure. It was early Sunday morning, it was snowing, and Sean was at his grandmother's, safe. When would she feel secure enough to bring him home? Ever? It had to end. Tammy had to do something; it had to end, sometime.

She hoped the four agents outside weren't freezing their butts off. At least she knew they had hot coffee; she'd taken them a huge thermos about ten o'clock.

She got to the end of the hall and paused for a moment, feeling the house warm around her, breathing in its comforting smells. It took a moment, but Sherlock realized that something was different.

It was quiet in a way she wasn't used to. Too quiet. She realized that the alarm was off, the very low hum you could barely hear wasn't there. Panic lurched up into her throat.

She turned to look down the beautifully carved oak staircase. She saw dim light pooling at the bottom from the glass arch above the front door, snowflakes drifting lazily down. She took one step, then another, when a hand hit her square in the middle of the back. She screamed, or at least she thought she did, as she went head over heels down the stairs. Someone passed by her as she lay there facedown on a thick Persian carpet, the breath knocked out of her, barely hanging on to consciousness. She'd struck her head, struck everything on her body, and she could hardly move.

She thought she heard a moan, and then the figure was gone. The front door opened as she stared at it, yes, she was sure it was open, now fully open, because she felt a slice of cold air reach her face, and she shivered.

The front door stayed open. Only an instant passed before she realized what had happened. Someone had shoved her down the stairs. Someone had just gone out through the front door.

She managed to stagger to her feet, fear swamping her. Tammy Tuttle, it had to be her, but how? How had she gotten past the agents and into the house? Why hadn't Sherlock seen her?

She threw back her head and yelled, “Dillon! Oh God, Dillon, come quickly!”

Savich and Simon appeared at the top of the stairs at the same time, both wearing only boxer shorts. A light went on.

“Sherlock!”

Savich was beside her, holding her tightly against him, then gently pushing her down, afraid that he was hurting her.

Sherlock came back up, grabbed his arms. “No, no, Dillon, I'm okay. Tammy—she was here; she shoved me down the stairs. The alarm was off and I was just coming downstairs to check. I heard a woman's moan. It wasn't me. Where's Lily? Dear God, check Lily.”

Simon was back up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. They heard him yell, “She's gone!”

Dillon grabbed his cell phone to call the agents outside.

Simon turned on all the lights as Dillon spoke to the agents. The front door was open and there was no sign of Lily. Somehow, Tammy had taken her out without Sherlock seeing anything.

Savich stood on his front porch in his boxer shorts, straining to see through the snow falling like a thin, white curtain in front of him, into the darkness beyond.

 

JIMMY Maitland said as he sipped his coffee, so blessedly hot it nearly burned his tongue, “What do the folk in Behavioral Sciences have to say?”

Savich said, “Jane Bitt is guessing, she freely admits it, but as far as she knows, no one has ever before encountered anything like Tammy Tuttle. She may have some sort of genetic gift, be able to project what she wants you to see. What's amazing is the scope. She had everyone in that airport in Antigua believing she was a man, and this is what makes her so unique. Jane said even given that, we shouldn't focus exclusively on it—there's no percentage to it. She says there's no beating her that way. We should focus on a woman with one arm who's twenty-three years old. What would she do? If we can predict that, she's vulnerable.”

“But we don't know what she'll do, where she'd take Lily,” Sherlock said.

“She was supposed to come after
me
here, not Lily—to tear my head off,” Savich said slowly, staring at his hands, which were clasped tightly together around Sherlock's waist.

Simon was on his feet, pacing in front of the two of them. He was wearing only wrinkled black wool slacks, no shirt, even his feet were bare.

“Listen, Savich, you know she took Lily because she figured it was better revenge than killing you. Now, think. Where would Tammy Tuttle take Lily?”