Point Blank

Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “It’s ironic how Moses Grace has some things right and others dead wrong. It’s obvious he did all his research in the newspapers.”

“Yes, and he imagined the rest. Good heavens, would you look at this.”

The huge old barn, abandoned for decades, no longer looked dilapidated and derelict. The once-peeling clapboards were freshly painted a bright red and reflected the afternoon sun that speared through the maple branches. The garbage and machine parts that had once littered the outside of the barn were gone. Instead, there was a gravel path leading to the two large front doors. Sherlock said, “It doesn’t look like the same place. You think Marilyn’s done all this?”

“Who else? Look, one of the doors is propped open. She must be here.” Savich was smiling as he pulled the huge door wide. Sunlight poured in from the west. It was amazing, he thought, staring. It must have taken days to clear out all the moldy hay, the rusted equipment, the wooden troughs. The black circle painted in the middle of the floor that he remembered so clearly was gone. There was no dirt floor, either. It was covered with plywood. The walls had been Sheetrocked and painted, and the windows had glass in them again. The old barn smelled as fresh as the outdoors, with an overlay of new paint, sawdust, and wallpaper glue.

They walked back toward the tack room, noticed the dropped ceiling with new hanging lamps that sent out huge circles of light. The stairs at the far end of the barn leading up to the loft had been replaced and painted. They looked solid.

He heard a woman humming and called out, “Marilyn? Is that you?”

The humming stopped. A voice called out, with just a dollop of healthy fear in it. “Who is it?”

“It’s Agent Dillon Savich and Agent Sherlock, FBI. Do you remember me?”

A young woman dressed in ancient paint-stained jeans, a big Plum River sweatshirt, and paint-splattered sneakers strode forward, a paintbrush in her hand. The overweight, slump-shouldered, defeated young woman with the stringy hair and frightened eyes they both remembered had vanished. This woman was healthy, her eyes bright, hair clean and pulled back in a ponytail. “Mr. Savich? Is it really you? Oh my goodness, it is! And don’t you look fine!” She threw her arms around his neck and jumped up to lock her legs around his waist. She reared back a bit and grinned at him. “Oh, this is just dandy. Remember that overnight letter I sent you from Aruba? I told you how glad I was that Tammy didn’t kill you?” She leaned down and gave him two big smacking kisses. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

Savich gently grasped her wrists and pulled her hands from around his neck. “Marilyn,” he said, laughing, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate your greeting, but this is my wife, Agent Sherlock. You remember her, don’t you? She’s got her arm in a sling right now, but if she didn’t, she’d be over here pulling you off me and hugging you herself for how you helped us.”

Marilyn twisted in his arms. “Oh hi, Agent Sherlock. Why aren’t you Agent Savich, too?”

Sherlock grinned at the woman whose legs were still wrapped around her husband’s waist. “Well, you see, Marilyn, there’s already one Agent Savich. Trust me, the FBI doesn’t need two. Besides, my maiden name makes bad guys think twice if they want to tangle with me.”

“Sherlock,” Marilyn said, rolling the name in her mouth. “Yeah, I like that.” She hopped down and stepped back, smiled up at Savich. “It’s been quite a while, Mr. Savich.”

“And lots of good changes, too,” Savich added.

Marilyn nodded. “I took a nine-month course at the Center for Architectural Woodworking in Baltimore two years ago, learned all about drafting shop drawings, jigs and templates, joinery, machining, stuff like that. Then I found out about this old gentleman who has a shop right here in Summerset. He’s totally awesome, an old-style craftsman, really famous in the area for his furniture making. So I managed to talk him into taking me on. Buzz Murphy’s his name. He’s a nice old guy. He’s teaching me everything he knows. And now we’re almost partners. He’s going to sell me his shop when he retires.” She paused. “

Well, now the old coot wants to marry me—like that’s going to happen.

“I’m not poor anymore, Mr. Savich—well, not as poor as I used to be. And I’m not a fat old frump, either. I work out and only eat french fries twice a week.” And she lifted up her oversized sweatshirt to show them her midriff as she twirled around.

Sherlock laughed. “You look great, Marilyn, maybe too great, so I want you to stay away from my husband.” She waved her hand around her. “This is quite a project—look at how much you’ve accomplished.”

Marilyn beamed at them. “Doesn’t it look great? It’s taken months and months. When I need something done and it’s too much work for me, I find someone who’s good at it. Barter’s the greatest thing going if you have a skill to trade. You can build your own business that way.”

She waved toward a grouping of four mahogany chairs. “See those chairs I made with Buzz? I really like the Chippendale design.” Marilyn was so excited she was nearly dancing.

“That’s a late eighteenth-century British design. Look at the elaborate splats—boy, does that ever take concentration and a gentle touch—and the ball-and-claw feet, you bust your butt to get those beauties.”

“They’re incredible,” Sherlock said. “So very finely made.”

“Buzz helped me with the splats, but I did the last two all by myself. Bet you can’t tell which are mine, without his help.”

Savich studied each of them, ran his hand over the intricate splats of one chair, then smiled at her. “No, I can’t tell. You’re really good, Marilyn.”

“Thank you. I’ve already got the old tack room done. It’s going to be my office. My living area is going up in the old hay loft. I’ll have it done in a couple of months, then I’m moving out here.

“I decided I don’t want Buzz’s shop or his house, just all his tools and equipment and clients, but I haven

’t broken that to him yet since he’s been attached to that shop for thirty years. But my shop will be here. There’s plenty of work space, all I need. And the light, would you look at all the wonderful light!”

Savich was coming to terms with how much she’d changed. Not only her appearance, but the air of hopelessness that had clung to her, the fear—it was all gone. She was no longer that terrorized girl the Tuttles had abused. In her place appeared this solid young woman.

Savich took her hand, knowing he was going to scare her again, and hating it. “I don’t want to needlessly frighten you, Marilyn, but we need your help. It has to do with Tammy.”

Her hand jerked in his, but he held it tight. For an instant, she looked panicked.

“No, it’s okay. Both Tammy and Tommy are long dead, you know that. It’s about someone close to them. We’re looking for an old man who knew Tammy, maybe her grandfather.”

“But why? They’re all dead, aren’t they? You swear Tammy’s dead, don’t you, Mr. Savich?”

“Of course she’s dead,” he assured her. “But there’s a vicious old man out there who’s as insane and violent as Tammy was. He wants to avenge her by killing me. And he wants to hurt Sherlock. Help us, Marilyn. Tell us who he is.”

“Moses Grace?” she whispered, her face now pale, the old fear back in her eyes. “That old man everyone’s talking about? And that teenage girl he’s got with him? Claudia?”

Savich nodded.

“Oh God, do you think he knows about this property?”

He said matter-of-factly, “No, I have no reason to believe he does. The location of this barn wasn’t in any newspaper accounts. And believe me, Marilyn, if he’d somehow found out about this place, he’d have been here months ago. He doesn’t know. Believe me.”

“Okay, that’s a good thing. But you think Moses Grace is Tammy’s grandfather?”

“Yes, he may very well be. He’s too old to be her father.”

“I don’t want him to kill you, Mr. Savich.” She nodded at Sherlock’s sling. “Did he do that?”

“Yes, he did,” Savich said.

“You’re right about it not being Tammy’s daddy. He left when she and Tommy were real young.”

“Okay. You told me your mother and Tammy’s mother were sisters or half-sisters. Tell us what you remember about any other relatives, Marilyn—names, where they lived, whatever.”

“It’s hard to talk about them, Mr. Savich, but I’ll try.” She waved them toward the mahogany chairs again. “Sit down, sit down. Okay. Good.” Then she stopped talking. She stretched her legs out in front of her and stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets.

She said finally, slowly, as if the words were being pulled out of her against her will, “Dalton, Kansas, that’s where I grew up with my mom. Tammy and Tommy lived with their mom in Lucas City, a little farming town maybe fifteen miles away. There weren’t ever any daddies around that I can remember. But both moms had been married, I’m sure of that. Tammy’s mom was Aunt Cordie. Cordelia Tuttle—Tuttle was her husband’s name, but like I said, he was long gone. My daddy’s name was Warluski, so my mom was Marva Warluski. My old man took off before I was even born.

“My mom used to say that Cordie had the brain of a mushroom and was meaner than a copperhead snake, just look at Tommy and Tammy, carbon copies of her. Whenever Tommy and Tammy beat me up, my mom said it was okay as long as I still had my neck because I had to toughen up.

“I used to hide when they came to visit.” She paused for a moment, her face twisted. “They always found me, and they walloped me anyway. My mom called me a wuss.”

“Do you remember other aunts or uncles?”

Marilyn shook her head. “My mom never spoke of any. Aunt Cordie didn’t, either.”

“And both your mom and Tammy’s mom died, is that right, Marilyn?”

Marilyn’s eyes popped open. “Yes, Mr. Savich, they died when we were all teenagers. That’s when Tommy and Tammy took me away, told me I had to do exactly what they said or they’d put me in a hole filled with snakes.”

“How did they die?”

“Tommy said they broke into this old lady’s house to take her social security money, but she wouldn’t tell them where she kept it. A neighbor heard the old lady screaming and called the police. They ran out of there, the cops chasing them, and one of the cops shot out a rear tire. Mom couldn’t hold the car on the road, and they hit a tree. Killed them both.”

Sherlock felt a wave of revulsion and swallowed. Marilyn spoke so matter-of-factly about it. She saw Dillon’s expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes were darker and hard. He said, “Think now what your mom’s maiden name was.”

“My mom’s name was Marva Gilliam.”

“Was that Cordie’s name, too?”

“Aunt Cordie—yes, she was Gilliam, too, because they were sisters, not half sisters.”

“Good. Very good. So she was Cordelia Gilliam. Did your grandfather and grandmother ever come around?”

She closed her eyes again. “I don’t ever remember a grandmother. But Granddaddy—yeah, I remember him. He never stayed with us, only with Aunt Cordie. I was maybe six years old when he came. Something must have happened because he suddenly left. Maybe he did something bad and had to run. He was mean, Mr. Savich, as mean as Aunt Cordie and Tommy and Tammy. He’d hit Tammy upside the head, then he’d cuddle her and stroke her hair. It scared me to death. It wasn’t right, I see that now. What he’d do when he cuddled Tammy wasn’t right.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“After my mom was killed he came real late one night, to Tommy and Tammy’s house. We were packing because the social workers were coming and we had to get out fast. He stuffed a whole bunch of money in Tammy’s hands, and then he kissed her, with his mouth open, patted her face, and left. I remember Tammy ran out after him. She didn’t come back for maybe an hour.” Marilyn looked at Savich. “I haven’

t thought about that in years. I really didn’t realize…but Tammy was maybe fifteen then. Did he have sex with her, Mr. Savich?”

“Don’t dwell on it, Marilyn. Did you ever hear his first name?”

“Both my mom and Aunt Cordie called him Papa. I heard him tell Tammy to call him Malcolm. So I guess he had to be Malcolm Gilliam. Do you know what? I just saw him in my mind. He was handsome, real good-looking, but old, you know?

“Once, about six months later, I remember Tommy and Tammy talking about him. Tammy waved this postcard in front of my nose, said it was from her granddaddy. I said he was my granddaddy, too, but she laughed, said I didn’t know Granddaddy like she did. She said he sent the postcard all the way from Montreal.”

“How did he know where they were, do you remember?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Savich. They didn’t talk about that.”

“Were there other postcards or letters?”

“Yeah, some, along with wads of cash, for three or four years, then they stopped.”

Savich leaned over and patted her hand. “You have helped us immensely. Thank you.”

Because Marilyn was so proud of her new home, Savich and Sherlock drank some sodas with her and ate a couple of her favorite Fig Newtons. She showed them the table she was making to match the beautiful chairs. The last thing Marilyn said to Savich when she walked them to Sherlock’s Volvo was, “I

’m sure sorry about your Porsche, Mr. Savich. I saw it blow up on TV. Now you’ve got to ride in this stuffy thing.”

Savich patted her cheek, kissed her lightly. “As soon as I can I’m going to go out and get myself something you’ll really like.”

“Then make it one of those new Corvettes, red of course. Unless you have enough money for a Ferrari.”

They waved until both she and her barn were out of sight. When they drove onto the country road again, Savich said, “Malcolm Gilliam. I’ll bet you anything his parents were named either Moses or Grace or a combination of the two.”

CHAPTER 34

RICHMOND, VIRGINIA SATURDAY AFTERNOON

THE SATURDAY AFTERNOON traffic was sluggish as they approached Richmond, people hanging out of their cars, enjoying the break in the weather.

Dix exited the downtown expressway and worked his way over to West Grace Street to the Richmond Police Department headquarters.

“There’s some irony in the street name,” Ruth remarked.

For a Saturday afternoon there was lots of activity, more than Dix had seen since his days in New York. They passed a woman sobbing into her hands, a man ranting about his mechanic cheating him, and a cop filling out papers next to a teenager who looked scared to death. Dix was thinking he should have left Rob and Rafe in the car with Brewster, but then Detective Morales came forward, his hand outstretched. After the introductions, the detective led them to the second floor. He eyed the boys and spoke quietly into his cell phone.

Rafe whispered to his brother, “Hey, would you look at that scar? How cool is that? Bet he was in a gunfight.”

Detective Morales said over his shoulder, “Yep, a bunch of Colombian drug dealers were holed up in the warehouse district, and we stormed the place. This is my souvenir.” He ran a finger lightly over the pale scar. “My wife thinks it’s pretty cool, too.

“Ah, Linus, these two hotshots are Rob and Rafe Noble. While I’m dealing with their dad, Sheriff Noble, and Special Agent Warnecki, I’m hoping you could break away from chasing down bank robbers to give them a tour of our fine facilities.”

Officer Linus Craig couldn’t have been over twenty-two, Ruth thought as she shook his beefy hand. He had to be six-five, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds on a light day. She’d wager he’d played football in college, probably offensive line. His broken nose hadn’t healed quite straight, and he had the sweetest smile. He grinned at Rob and Rafe, shook their hands, then leaned close to the boys. “You guys want to see the lineup room? It’s down the hall in the detective division. Hey, I’ll hang some numbers on you, let you live the experience. We can see how tall you are, too.”

The boys didn’t give them a backward glance. Detective Morales, dark-haired and dark-eyed, already sporting a five o’clock shadow, laughed as he led them to a small conference room down the hall. “I’ve got three teenagers of my own. They wanted me to put them in a cell overnight. I settled on the lineup thing. They didn’t stop talking about it all day.” He opened the door to the conference room and gestured them in.

“A nice setup you’ve got here,” Dix told him as he accepted a cup of coffee.

“The place is brand-new, up and running in 2002. None of that smell city police stations have, that combination of dampness, cheap room deodorizer, and eau de criminal. Not yet. It’s the best part of having new digs. So you’re an FBI agent,” he said without pause to Ruth. “How’d you and Sheriff Noble hook up? You guys married? Those your boys?”

“No, we’re not married,” Dix said easily. “We just met a week ago when this all started, Detective Morales.”

“Call me Cesar.”

Dix nodded, sat forward, and clasped her hands in front of him. “I’m Dix, and this is Ruth. Ruth is the agent Dempsey and Slater fired on last Saturday night. We met with Ruth’s boss in Washington this morning, and I’m real glad to find you here at work today, to meet you personally.”

Ruth said, “We both know about weekend work, Sheriff. The devil never sleeps.”

Dix said, “Sorry to tie up your staff with the boys, Cesar. It’s been a rough week for them, with people they know dying, our own house getting shot up. I wanted to show them we’re dealing with it, calm them down a little, and I didn’t want to leave them alone.”

“I understand,” Morales said. “Officer Craig can handle the kids, and I’ve got time to fill you in on what we’re doing.”

“You mentioned you’re working on some information from someone called Eddie Skanky?”

Detective Morales nodded. “Yes, I’ve also got two of my detectives working the usual stuff—credit cards, phone calls, bank accounts. They’ve leaned on Dempsey’s girlfriend and their business associates

—you want to call them that—but lowlifes like that never have anything to tell you unless they’re up on charges and need some leverage to deal down.

“Eddie Skanky is a local thug who’s been sent up twice by Detective Marilyn Honniger. She got him again on a parole violation and he’s promised to put his nose to the grindstone if she doesn’t toss him back in jail. Seems he knew Slater and Dempsey, both in prison and out. We’re waiting for him to give up a name.”

“A name would be a good start,” Dix said, “but we have to be sure he’s not pulling a name out of the newspaper to stay out of prison.”

“Some of the people who were close to the victims are prominent, respected people,” Ruth explained. “

Let’s hope he brings in something solid, or they’ll laugh at us.”

“I understand,” Detective Morales said. “I hear everything, and I know some of those people are relatives of yours, Sheriff. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes on this one.”

Dix sighed deeply, muttered under his breath, and said, meeting Morales’s eyes, “Yes, it could get real messy. I pray no one in the family is involved, mostly for the boys’ sake. I wouldn’t want to have to tell them something like that. But we’ll deal with whatever comes.”

They left a short time later, dragging Rob and Rafe, who didn’t want to detach themselves from Officer Craig. Dix unlocked the Range Rover to a hysterically barking Brewster, and everyone settled in. Ruth waited until the boys were plugged into a computer game before she said quietly, “I like Detective Morales. I’m glad we stopped here to meet him. It makes a difference when you know the other person. He’s a straight-up guy. He’ll come up with a name for us. I just don’t know if it will be in time.” At his raised eyebrow, she said smoothly, “By Tuesday.”

Dix grinned as he checked the boys in the rearview mirror, and murmured, “They’re still dealing with losing their mother. I hope we’re wrong about Gordon.”

“Hey, Dad, did I tell you how Officer Craig took us to booking? Showed us their fancy new fingerprinting machine? It’s newer than yours.”

Rafe said, “He showed me how to look like a real rough character in the lineup booth, how to slouch and turn my sneakers up on the edges.”

“The lineup, huh? Maybe next time Officer Craig can dump you in a holding cell, lock you up for a couple of hours so you can keep company with some of the city’s more upstanding citizens.”

The boys hooted and settled back into their game. If a wild cacophony of gunshots and car crashes counted as settling in, Ruth thought.

Dix passed an old truck, nodded to the farmer who waved him ahead, and eased the Range Rover around him.

CHAPTER 35

WASHINGTON, D.C. SUNDAY NIGHT

SAVICH AND SHERLOCK sat in the Volvo in their driveway, the engine idling, heater running. Savich stared at his laptop. MAX was in satellite communication with the communications center in the Hoover Building. A large-scale map of the Washington, D.C., area appeared on the screen. Sherlock said, “It’s ironic, isn’t it? Our neighbors to the north had Malcolm Gilliam in custody for nine years. If they’d only kept him incarcerated none of this would have happened.”

“I wish he’d been in prison rather than in a mental hospital,” Savich said. “It’s a pity the Canadian Supreme Court ruling in 1991 changed their criminal code. They made it easier to escape criminal culpability by claiming insanity.”

“But still,” Sherlock said, “he brutally kills two people in Quebec and they let him out in nine years?”

Savich rolled his shoulders and stretched. “Once his lawyers managed to convince a jury he wasn’t criminally responsible because he was hallucinating and delusional at the time of the crimes, it wasn’t lawful for them to hold him in custody any longer. Something about cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Unless,” Sherlock said, “they could prove he still posed a risk to the public. He must have learned the rules really well.” She looked at MAX’s screen for a moment and panned the map westward. “So, Dillon, if they deemed Moses was no longer a danger to the public, the Institut Philippe Pinel couldn’t monitor him after he was released?”

“He was scheduled to see his multidisciplinary support group weekly, but he was legally free to leave. So he hacked off his locator bracelet, skipped out, and came back to the United States two years ago. Then we lose track of him until he picks up Claudia and beats that homeless man to death eight months ago in Birmingham.”

“You know he must see Claudia as another Tammy.”

“Probably. Claudia is the same age as Tammy was. And now the two of them have gone on their own killing spree.”

Savich opened a JPEG file on MAX. “You haven’t seen this photo yet, Sherlock. It was taken three weeks before Moses’s trial.”

She leaned over to stare at the photo of a rather distinguished-looking, middle-aged man with thick gray hair, a thin ascetic face, and an aquiline nose. His nicely worn tweed suit made him look like a banker. “

You’d never know it was Moses Grace,” she marveled out loud. “The description everyone at Denny’s agreed on was that he looked ancient. It hasn’t been much more than a dozen years since this photo was taken.”

Savich nodded and began to massage her neck and shoulders to ease the tension. “It’d be nice, though, to have a photo from when he got out of the Canadian institute after nine years. We’re still working on that.”

She studied MAX’s screen again. “He’s aged thirty years, and not well, since this was taken.”

“He’s very ill, Sherlock, and maybe that’s got a lot to do with how old and worn he looks. He was being treated for pulmonary tuberculosis reactivation at Philippe Pinel. They didn’t finish treating him before he skipped out. When I told Dr. Breaker his symptoms, he said it sounded like the infection had progressed to the cavitary stage—destroyed enough tissue to form big holes in his lungs. Dr. Breaker thinks he’s in the end stages.”

“I guess more people were exposed to tuberculosis back then. So a disease he probably got in childhood is going to do him in. At least there’ll be some kind of justice for him.”

“If this satellite link to the communications center holds up, we’ll be helping him get justice sooner than that,” Savich said.

“I sure hope so, Dillon, or we’ll never get any sleep.”

“We still have some time before midnight,” Savich said. He pulled her onto his lap, kissed her behind the ear, and smoothed her soft hair with his hand. “Rest a moment. It’s only been two days since you got your arm sliced up.”

He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. “Moses called at exactly midnight the last time. We won’t stay out much later than that. Dane and Ben should be here about now.”

At midnight sharp Savich’s cell phone rang. He pulled out of his driveway and next to the curb, and let the car idle again. He gave everyone a thumbs-up and answered it.

“Hey, Moses, how you doin’? Coughing up lots of blood? Nearly dead, aren’t you, old man?”

Savich had surprised him. There was a long silence. Savich needed him to say something, to identify himself.

“Now, boy, you know my Claudia wouldn’t let that happen. I’m plenty fit enough to take care of business with you.”

Before Moses finished his sentence, a flashing yellow dot appeared on MAX’s Washington map, pinpointing his location. He was moving. Sherlock magnified the map with a keystroke, nodded to Savich, and pointed straight ahead. The Volvo accelerated smoothly.

“Still think you’re going to kill me? Not a chance, old man,” Savich said.

“We’ll see, won’t we, now that I know where you live.” He cackled, and Savich could hear liquid rolling around in his mouth. “You want to know how I found out your address? I found it at Ms. Lilly’s before I set off that little bomb. Claudia thought since we missed your cute little wife, we ought to get down to business and try again real soon, so I wanted to let you know you can’t hide anymore. It was quite a scene there for a while Friday night, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock motioned for a left on Clement Street, and Savich turned smoothly. Dane Carver and Ben Raven listened in on their cell phones in the backseat to radio communications from the Hoover building. They were relaying Moses’s location by voice to all the agents converging on him.

“You caused quite a furor, Moses. Say hello to Claudia for me, will you? That’s Claudia Smollett, isn’t it, from Cleveland, Ohio? She looks pretty in her pictures. Are you sure you’re anxious for me to meet her?

”

They heard Moses’s muffled, angry voice. “Damn, Claudia, he’s made you. What am I going to do with you if you don’t listen to me?”

The flashing yellow dot disappeared from the map. Moses’s phone was in a dead spot, without GPS

signal. Then it flashed on again, bright as before, to the collective relief of everyone in the Volvo. Savich said, “I wouldn’t be too upset with her, Moses. She’s not the only one who’s been careless. You’

re not really Moses Grace, are you? Moses was your daddy’s name and Grace was your mama’s. Do you think your parents would be pleased you’re doing all this killing using their names? Looks to me like they were real nice people.”

There was a sharp hitch in Moses’s breath, followed by a violent hacking cough. Finally he managed to say, “Well, well, well. Was that a guess or has our Boy Scout been doing his homework?”

Sherlock gave Savich a thumbs-up and mouthed, Two minutes.

Savich said, “Why don’t I talk while you choke on your own blood, Moses? Your name is Malcolm Gilliam, born in Youngstown, Ohio. You flunked out of engineering school, then spent some time in Canada. You’ve really got to work on that illiterate hillbilly shtick, by the way.”

“You gonna tell me how you found out about me?”

Savich only laughed at him. “You did a good job keeping that mental hospital stretch in Canada to only nine years. How’d you manage that?”

He heard blood and phlegm bubbling up in Moses’s throat. He swallowed convulsively but the bubbling sound remained. “Well, you know, boy, I started taking Xenadrine to lose some weight, and damned if I didn’t start hearing voices. Terrible thing, my lawyers said, terrible thing. But do you know those do-gooder morons still kept me in that damned mental ward for nine years? Nine years I had to play a role and do every damned thing I was told to do! I’ll tell you, it took everything in me to play them right, to give them all the answers they wanted on their idiot tests, but now it’s over, and here I am, boy, your worst nightmare.”

Sherlock whispered to him as Moses spoke, “He’s driving south on Andover. Right now he’s crossing Delancy Street, heading into a residential area. He’s only six blocks from us. Dane, Ben, you guys got that?”

“Who you got with you, boy? About time we finished this chat, anyway. I know how you like to try and get cute triangulating my cell phones even though I beat you every time.”

Savich had to keep him on the line a little longer. “It’s Sherlock, Moses, no one to be afraid of. Besides, we’re old friends, seeing as how you’re Tammy’s granddaddy.”

Moses’s surprise was palpable in the silence. This time Savich could hear a touch of fear in his voice. “

How the hell do you know that?”

“I know all about you, Malcolm. Last time you saw Tammy and Tommy, you gave her a wad of cash, then took off for Canada.”

There was silence, and finally Moses whispered, “You butchered my poor Tommy, and you shot off Tammy’s arm. Only one person left who knew about that—Marva’s little girl, what’s her name? Marilyn. Here I thought she was already dead. Never liked her, whiny little bitch, but Tommy liked to have her around. Well, I’m going to find her, let Claudia have a go at her before I cut her heart out.” The last word caught in a spurting cough.

Savich looked at Sherlock, who whispered, “He’s only a couple of blocks ahead, driving slow.”

“You got Claudia with you? She listening to us?”

“My little cutie’s right here.”

“Is she holding a box of Kleenex for you to catch the blood you’re spewing? Too bad about your tuberculosis, Moses.”

“I’m going to blow up your house, boy, you hear me? I’m going to blow you and your little wife to hell.”

Moses clicked off.

Savich saw the dark blue van at the same time Dane and Ben did. Moses was driving around Jackson Park, a small square dotted with old maple trees, deserted now in the cold winter night. Only a few lights were on in the houses surrounding the square.

Dane whispered into his cell, “We’ve got him dead ahead. Everyone come in silent. Wait for my signal.”

The van suddenly accelerated. They realized they’d been spotted, but it was too late. It was way too late.

“Gotcha, old man.” Savich punched down on the gas, heading straight for the van. Ben and Dane leaned out, fired multiple rounds at the van’s back tires.

Both tires exploded.

Claudia leaned out the passenger window, returned fire.

The van swerved madly, struck a parked Toyota, then bounced off. Moses jumped the curb and turned the van into the park, skimming between two skinny maple trees. The doors flew open and he and Claudia leaped out, carrying what looked like AR-15 assault rifles. They ran in opposite directions through the small park, taking cover behind trees.

FBI vehicles started pulling up all around the park, tires screeching, headlights filling the park with glaring light.

Savich was out of the Volvo, yelling, “Down, everyone down!”

Automatic gunfire from the park sprayed the area in a wide circle. Savich heard a grunt, yelled without hesitation, “Bring them down!”

For a minute the gunfire was intense, blasting into the park from all directions. Savich heard Claudia yell, watched the AR-15 spin out of her arms as she fell to the ground. She tried to crawl away, holding her side.

They were close enough to hear Moses coughing, curses spewing out of his mouth as he fired. There was a brief silence when they heard him slam in another clip, and he fired again. Lights came on in the houses around the square. There were no shadows left anywhere. Claudia hissed out a yell and crawled back to her assault rifle. As she grabbed up the weapon, one of the sharpshooters found her in his sights. There was a loud report as her head exploded and she fell back, dead. The shooting abruptly stopped because Moses was no longer firing and was no longer in view. He wasn’t anywhere.

Savich began to run to where he’d last seen Moses bent nearly double with the force of his coughing, fanning his assault rifle, firing until another clip was empty.

He yelled, “Hold your fire!” He was within six feet of where Moses had stood, saw the spent shells but nothing else. He heard a cough and turned sharply to his left, ran toward it. “I can hear you, Moses. In a second I’ll be able to see you, too. You’re not as good as Tammy was.”

A bullet fired, went wide. Savich saw Moses Grace in the next moment, the assault rifle hanging limply in his hand, bent over, moaning, hacking up blood. A large bloodstain was spreading across his belly. Suddenly a fountain of blood gushed out of his mouth. Savich walked over to him and took the rifle out of his hand. “Everyone can see you now, Moses. It’s over.” Savich yelled over his shoulder, “All clear.”

The old man heaved up more blood. He was covered with it now, streaming down his chin. Savich watched him weave, then fall hard to the ground on his side. He groaned as he rolled over onto his back. His eyes stared straight up, locked onto Savich’s face.

His face twisted as he tried to speak, his bloody chest pulsing in frantic breaths. Savich came down on his knees beside him. His blood-drenched mouth opened, and when Savich leaned down close to him, he tried to spit on him. But he no longer had any breath. If he was still aware of where he was, the last thing he saw was twenty FBI agents standing over him.

Savich felt for a pulse in his neck, then shook his head. For a long moment, he stared down at the mad old wreck of a man.

Jimmy Maitland dropped to his knees beside Savich. “Dear Lord, I didn’t know there was this much blood in a human being. Thank God it’s over. Step away, Savich, he’s infected.”

Mr. Maitland rose, Savich coming up slowly to stand beside him. They watched all the men and women high-fiving each other. Mr. Maitland shouted, “Okay, boys and girls, let’s get this nightmare wrapped up.

”

They could hear sirens in the distance. Mr. Maitland said to Savich, “The media will be here any minute. I hope to God they never find out how you pulled this off. You know what? Even I don’t know how high up the chain of command this one went.” He clapped Savich on the shoulder. Savich grinned at him. “Worked like a charm, didn’t it?”

Ten minutes later, Jimmy Maitland watched the forensic team carefully bag the bodies of Moses Grace and Claudia Smollett. The police cordoned off the area to keep the homeowners away. Men and women tumbled out of media vans, armed with microphones and cameras. Mr. Maitland watched Savich hug Sherlock and help her into the Volvo. Then he walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. He imagined Savich wincing as he turned the key on that solid car that was a universe away from his Porsche, and smiled. Then he squared his shoulders and turned to deal with the media.

CHAPTER 36

MAESTRO, VIRGINIA SUNDAY NOON

THE BOYS HAD wolfed down their first hamburger and baked potato before they stopped talking about the lineup at the Richmond Police Department. It wasn’t until they were building their second hamburgers that Rob started a new topic. “The ice was great on the pond this morning, Dad. We all raced and I won, easy.”

“You only beat me once, Rob, and that’s because you cheated. And the other kids were all twelve years old.”

“What about Pete? He’s a senior, older than me.”

“He’s a spaz, can’t figure out which foot is which.”

Ruth and Dix sat back, half listening, watching the boys eat and argue, mostly both at the same time. Dix said, “The amazing thing is I can remember when I ate just like that with my brothers.”

She nodded, but she was thinking, and Dix saw it. “We did a lot of good work this morning, Ruth. Give your brain a rest for a while.”

“I can’t.”

Rob said, “Hey, Ruth, do you skate? You think you can beat my little brother? If you do, you can race against me.”

“And the winner of that race will go against me, right?” Dix asked.

“Okay, Dad, with maybe a handicap.”

“And maybe a blindfold,” Rafe said.

“You’re that good, are you?” Ruth asked him.

“Beat my boys and see.”

Ruth grinned as she passed the mustard for the new round of burgers. Dix noticed that Rob didn’t dig into his hamburger right away, and that was unusual. “What’s up, Rob?”

Rob carefully laid his fork down on his plate. “I don’t know, but something’s wrong, Dad, with you. I think you’re all wound up. You and Ruth both.”

“I suppose that’s the truth,” Dix said. He imagined he knew where this was going, and he didn’t want to stop it. He said nothing, only nodded.

“Rafe and I were talking.” Here Rob shot a warning look at his brother.

“Yes?”

“Well, maybe—Nothing, Dad. We can talk about it later.” Rob pushed his chair back, grabbed his hamburger, and shot up. “We’re going to go sledding now.” He waved his hamburger. “I need my strength. Thanks for lunch.”

“Wait for me, Rob!”

“Be careful,” Ruth called after them.

Dix opened his mouth to demand to hear more, but he didn’t. They heard things, and they must be imagining even worse things. Rob was right, both he and Ruth were wound up. A discussion with the boys could wait until they were all ready for it, and he wouldn’t be ready for it until everything was resolved.

“They must blame me,” Ruth said, surprising him. “It’s easy to think that if I hadn’t come here, none of this would have happened.”

“Well, if they think that, they’re wrong and they’ll come to realize it. They’re fair and they’re bright. The best thing we can do for them is to put an end to all this as soon as we can. Then we’ll help them deal with it, Ruth. It’ll just take some time.”

His cell phone rang.

“Sheriff Noble.”

Ruth watched Dix’s face as he listened. When he punched off, he said, “That was Cesar Morales. He doesn’t have a name for us.”

“That sure makes me want to pop out with a profanity. All right, Dix. Cut the tease. Why did he call?”

“It turns out Dempsey’s girlfriend has been spending lots of cash. They pinned her with it and she finally told the detective that Tommy gave her nine thousand dollars in cash to keep safe until he and Jackie got back from a job.”

Ruth’s heart speeded up. “Did she give up anything that would help us find out who gave Dempsey the money?”

“As I said, Cesar didn’t have a name. But Tommy told his girlfriend it was for a job he was doing for a woman.” He paused, and grinned. “What he said, exactly, was that the job was for a crazy bitch at the music school in Maestro.”

CHAPTER 37