Riptide

28

Gaylan Woodhouse sat at an angle across from Thomas’s desk with his face in the shadows, as was his wont, and said, “I don’t want you to worry about your daughter, Thomas. Your whereabouts will not be leaked. As you know, the media is still in a frenzy over the shooting of poor Jabbers. The country is primarily amused at his audacity, titillated, glued to their TVs. Everyone wants to know about Krimakov, this man who swore to kill you twenty-some years ago. By shooting that damned dog, he’s turned up the heat. He wants the media to find you for him and then he’ll come after you.”

“No,” Thomas said slowly, shaking his head. “I don’t think that was his motive at all. You see, Gaylan, he had me in Riptide. He had to know I would never allow Becca to go up there alone. He could have easily shot me. He proved he was an excellent distance shooter when he shot the governor of New York. From that distance, he could have nailed me with little effort. But he didn’t force anything after he kidnapped Sam McBride, except to shoot Becca in the shoulder with a dart that had a piece of paper rolled around the shaft. No, Gaylan, he shot the governor’s dog because he wanted to give me the finger, show me again that it was his decision not to kill me and Becca in Riptide. He wants to show me that he doesn’t have to do anything until he decides he wants to do it. He wants to prove to me over and over that he’s superior to me, that he’s the one in control here, that he’s the one calling all the shots. It’s a cat-and-mouse game and he’s proving again and again that he’s the cat. Damnation, he is the cat. Adam’s right. During all of this, we’ve only been able to react to what he does.”

Gaylan said slowly, “One of my people pointed out that Krimakov certainly managed to get from one place to the next with no difficulty at all, suggested that maybe he has a private plane stashed somewhere. What do you think?”

Thomas said, “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Heaven knows you can’t have much faith in the commercial airlines. But you know, Gaylan, shooting that dog wasn’t on a set timetable. You can check it out, but I doubt it.”

Gaylan sighed. “We still don’t have any leads in New York. His disguise must have been something. The security tapes showed old folk, pregnant women, children-do we track all of them down to question? Still no witnesses. Damnation, four good agents dead because of that maniac.”

Thomas said, “I’ve been thinking about that. I’m coming to believe that Krimakov wants Becca and me together, to torment us together, prolong our deaths. But yet he went right to New York University Hospital, shot everyone, then ran. What if Krimakov somehow found out it was a trap? What if he still did it, in fact made a big production of it, all to tell us that he knew about our plan and it didn’t matter? Yes, he knew, and he thumbed his nose at us.”

“You’re making him sound wilier than the Devil,” Gaylan said, a brow arched. “More evil, too.”

“I would say certifiably insane,” Thomas said. “But it doesn’t make him stupid. It doesn’t really matter what the truth of his motives was, four agents are still dead. Yet it fits into all the things he’s done since then. Over the top, frightening as hell.”

“Yes,” Gaylan said. He looked toward Thomas’s bookshelves for a moment. He seemed to shake himself, then took a sip of his coffee. He carefully set the cup back into the saucer. He crossed his legs, then said, “There’s another reason I came here, Thomas. The fact is that the president isn’t going to sit still much longer. He called me over, paced in front of me for ten minutes, told me that all this mess had to come to a close, that the media are totally focused on it to the detriment of what he’s trying to accomplish. He’s got this new flat tax he’s trying to sell to the country, only the media is ignoring him in favor of this. He said he’d even tried to make a joke, but the media was still talking about Jabbers and his sore neck.”

“Tell the president that if he wants me to go public, challenge Krimakov at high noon, I’ll do it.”

“No,” Gaylan said, “you won’t. I won’t allow that. He could take you out easily-his shot at the governor was from a distance of at least four hundred feet. You yourself pointed that out to me. He’s better than good, Thomas, he’s one of the best. He maximized his chances to nail his target.” He held up his hand when Thomas would have said something. “No, let me finish. All I’m saying is that we’ve got to come up with something else. Somehow, we’ve got to make him dance to our tune.”

“A lot of very good minds are working on this, as you know, since some of those minds work for you.”

Gaylan nodded, picked up a pen from Thomas’s desk, and began rhythmically tapping it against his knee. “Yes, I know. But for now, your whereabouts stay unknown. I’ll tell the president that everything will be resolved in a couple more days. Think it’s possible?”

“Sure, why not?” And he thought, How the hell am I supposed to make that come about?

“All right. We continue the silence. What about that incident with Krimakov in Riptide?”

Thomas said, “Evidently, the media doesn’t know about her visit there yet. And Tyler McBride-you know, the man whose son Krimakov kidnapped in Riptide-he isn’t saying anything to anyone about Becca. I think he’s in love with her and that’s why he won’t explode sky-high with all this. Becca, however, as much as she cares for his little boy, isn’t headed his way.” He paused a moment, looking down at the onyx pen set that Allison had given him some five Christmases before. “It’s Adam,” he said, smiling briefly as he looked at his old friend. “Isn’t that nice?”

Gaylan Woodhouse grunted. “I’m too old,” he said, then sighed again. “Krimakov won’t find you, Thomas. Don’t worry. I’ll deal with the president. Let’s say forty-eight hours, then we’ll reassess. Okay?”

“Again, Gaylan, maybe Krimakov needs to find me. Forget the president’s political agenda. Just maybe Krimakov’s reign of terror will continue until he knows where I am. Maybe we should let him know, somehow.”

“We’ll all think about that, but not just yet. Forty-eight hours. Jesus, next the guy might try to shoot off the mayor’s wig.” Gaylan Woodhouse rose, dropped the pen back on top of the desk, shook Thomas’s hand, and stepped back through the door, where the shadows were thicker. Three dark-suited men fell in beside and behind him as he left Thomas’s house.

Thomas stared after him. Shadows surrounded him. Thomas understood shadows very well. He’d lived in the shadows himself for so long he could see them even as they gathered around him, and wondered if after a while anyone would actually see him or just the shadows.

Forget shadows, Thomas thought. Now wasn’t the time to wax philosophical. He thought about the meeting. Gaylan was a good friend. He’d hold out against the president about losing the limelight for as long as he could. Forty-eight hours-that was the deal. It wasn’t a lot of time and yet it was an eternity. Only Krimakov knew which.

The next evening, Sherlock and Savich arrived with thick folders of papers, MAX, and Sean, who reared up on Savich’s shoulder, staring about sleepily at everyone, a graham cracker clutched in his hand.

Sherlock looked at everyone in the living room. She didn’t look happy as she said, “I’m really sorry here, guys, but our handwriting experts turned up something we didn’t expect.”

“What have you got, Sherlock?” Adam asked, rising slowly, his eyes never leaving her face.

“We were hoping to learn whether or not Krimakov’s mental state had deteriorated, at least determine where he was sitting presently on the sanity scale, in order to give us a better chance of dealing with him, predicting what he might do, that sort of thing. That’s off now. We have no idea, you see, because the two new samples of handwriting Becca gave me aren’t Krimakov’s.”

Thomas looked like someone had slapped him. He said slowly, “No, that’s not possible. Admittedly I just looked at the ones from Riptide briefly, but they looked the same to me. You’re sure about this, Sherlock? Absolutely?”

“Oh, yes, completely sure. We’re dealing with a very different person here, and this person’s mind isn’t like yours or mine.”

“You mean he’s not sane,” Thomas said.

“It’s difficult to say with absolute certainty, but it’s possible he’s so far over the edge he’s holding on by his fingernails. We could throw around labels-psychopath comes readily to mind-but that’s just a start. The only thing we’re completely certain about-he’s obsessed with you, Thomas. He wants to prove to you that you’re nowhere near his league, that he’s a god and you’re dirt. He sees himself as an avenger, the man who will balance the scales of justice, the man who will be your executioner.

“It’s been his goal for a very long time; it could at this point even be his only reason for living. He’s rather like a missile that’s been programmed for one thing and one thing only. He won’t stop, ever, until either he’s killed you or you’ve killed him.”

“So it was never Krimakov,” Adam said slowly. “He really was killed in that auto accident in Crete.”

“Probably so. Now, not all of this is from our experts’ analysis. Profiling had a hand in it, as well.” Sherlock turned back to Thomas. “Like you said, the two different sets of handwriting look close to a layman’s eye, which probably means that this guy knew Krimakov, or at least he’d seen his handwriting a goodly number of times. A friend, a former or present colleague, someone like that.”

“We’re sorry, guys,” Savich said. “I know that Krimakov’s former associates have been checked backwards and forwards, but I guess we’re going to have to try to do more. I’ve already got MAX doing more sniffing around Krimakov’s neighbors, business associates, friends in Crete and on mainland Greece, as well. We already know that he had a couple of side businesses in Athens. We’ll see where that leads.”

“No, all that has already been checked,” Thomas said.

Savich just shook his head. “We’ll have to do more, try anything.”

Sherlock said, “We’ve also inputted everything we know into the PAP to see what comes out. Remember, the computer can analyze more alternatives more quickly than we can. We’ll see.”

Thomas said, “All right. What exactly did the profilers have to say, Sherlock?”

“Back to a label. He is psychotic. He has absolutely no remorse, no empathy for any of the people he’s killed. None of them mean anything to him. They were detritus to be swept out of his way.”

“I wonder why he didn’t kill Sam,” Becca said.

“We don’t know,” Savich said. “That’s a good question.”

“It just doesn’t seem possible,” Adam said. “Just not possible. Why would a colleague or some bloody friend-no matter how close to Krimakov-go on this rampage? Even if he is a psychopath, always has been a psychopath, why wait more than twenty years after the fact? Why take over Krimakov’s mission as his own?”

No one had an answer to that.

Adam said, “Now we’ve got to find out who would follow up on Krimakov’s vendetta once Krimakov himself was dead. What’s his motivation, for God’s sake?”

“We don’t know,” Sherlock said, and she began rubbing Sean’s back with her palm. He was cooing against his father’s shoulder, the graham cracker very wet but still clutched tightly in his hand.

“There are graham cracker crumbs all over the house,” Savich said absently.

Becca didn’t say anything. There were few things she’d ever been absolutely sure were true in her life. This was one of them. It simply had to be Krimakov. No matter how infallible the handwriting experts usually were, they were wrong on this one.

But what if they weren’t wrong? A psychopath obsessed with finding and killing her father? He’d called himself her boyfriend. He’d blown up that poor old bag lady in front of the Metropolitan Museum. He’d dug up Linda Cartwright and bashed in her face. No empathy, no remorse, people were detritus, nothing more. God, it was unthinkable.

She looked over at Adam. He was looking toward Savich, but she didn’t think he really saw him. Adam was really looking inward, ah, but his eyes-they were cold and hard and she wouldn’t want to have to tangle with him. She heard her father in the other room, speaking to Gaylan Woodhouse on the phone.

Sherlock and Savich left a few minutes later, leaving Adam and Becca in the living room, looking at each other. He said, his hands jiggling change in his pockets, “I’ve got stuff to do at my house. I want you to stay here with Thomas, under wraps. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I want to do some stuff, too,” she said, rising. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’ll stay here. It’s safe here.”

And he was gone.

Her father appeared in the doorway. She said, “I’ll see you later, sir. I’m going with Adam.” She picked up her purse and ran after him. He was nearly to the road when she caught up with him. “Where are you going?”

“Becca, go back. It’s safer here. Go back.”

“No. You don’t believe any more than I do that some colleague or friend of Krimakov’s from the good old days is wreaking all this havoc. I think we’re missing something here, something that’s been there all the time, staring us in the face.”

“What do you mean?” he said slowly. She saw the agents in the car down the street slowly get out and stand, both of them completely alert.

“I mean nothing makes sense unless it’s Krimakov. But just say that it isn’t. That means we’re missing something. Let’s go do your stuff together, Adam, and really plug in our brains.”

He eyed her a moment, looked around, then waved at the agents. “We’ve got to walk. It’s three miles. You up for it?”

“I’d love to race you. Whatcha say?”

“You’re on.”

“You’re dead meat, boy.”

Since they were both wearing sneakers, they could run until they dropped. He grinned at her, felt energy pulse through him. He wanted to run, to race the wind, and he imagined that she wanted to as well. “All right, we’re going to my house. I have all my files there, all my notes, everything. I want to scour them. If it is someone who knew Krimakov, then there’s got to be a hint of him in there somewhere. Yes, there must be something.”

“Let’s go.”

She nearly had his endurance, but not quite. He slowed in the third mile.

“You’re good, Becca,” he said, and waved his hand. “This is my house.”

She loved it. The house wasn’t as large as her father’s, but it sat right in the middle of a huge hunk of wooded land, two stories, a white colonial with four thick Doric columns lined up like soldiers along the front. It looked solid, like it would last forever. She cleared her throat. “This is very nice, Adam.”

“Thanks. It’s about a hundred and fifty years old. It’s got three bedrooms upstairs, two bathrooms-I added one. Downstairs is all the regular stuff, including a library, which I use for a study, and a modern kitchen.” He cleared his throat. “I had the kitchen redone a couple years ago. My mom told me no woman would marry me unless the stove would light without having to hold a match to a burner.”

She smiled. She nearly had her breathing back to normal.

“I had one of the two upstairs bathrooms redone, too,” he said, looking straight ahead. They climbed the three deep steps to walk across the narrow veranda to the large white front door. He stuck a key in the lock and turned it. “My mom said that no woman wanted to bathe in a claw-footed tub that was so old rust was peeling off the toes.”

“That does sound pretty gross. Oh my, Adam, it’s lovely.”

They stood together in a large entryway, with a ceiling that soared two stories, a chandelier hanging down over their heads and a lovely buffed oak floor. “I know, you redid the floors. Your mom told you no woman would marry you if she had to be carried into a house across a mess of old ratty linoleum.”

“How did you know?”

He’d preserved all the original charm of the house-the deeply carved, rich moldings, the high ceilings, the lovely cherry wood carved fireplaces, the incredible set-in windows.

They prepared to hunker down in the library, a light-filled room with built-in bookshelves, beautiful oak floors, a big mahogany desk, and lots of red leather. She looked around at the bookshelves stuffed with all kinds of books-nonfiction, fiction, hardcovers, paperbacks-stuck in indiscriminately.

Adam said as he handed her two folders, “My mom also told me that women liked to read all cozied up in deep chairs. It was just men, she said, who preferred to read in the bathroom.”

“You’ve even got women’s fiction here.”

“Yeah, it seems a man can never stack the deck too much in his favor.”

“I want to meet your mama,” Becca said.

“Undoubtedly you will, real soon.” Then he couldn’t stand it. He walked to her and pulled her tightly against him. She looked up at him and said, “I want to forget Krimakov for just a minute.”

“All right.”

“Have I told you lately that I think you’re really sexy?”

He smiled slowly and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Not since last night.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him back, thoroughly.

“I don’t want you to forget it,” she said after several minutes had passed. “You’ve gotten me a bit breathless. I really like it, Adam.”

“We’re in my house now,” he said, and this time he kissed her, really kissed her, no holding back, letting himself crash and burn, letting himself burrow into her. He brought her tightly against him, feeling all of her against him, and he wanted to jerk down her jeans, he wanted to devour her, take her until both of them shattered with the pleasure of it. He wanted to kiss her breasts, touch and kiss every inch of her, and not stop until he was unconscious. And then there was her mouth. Jesus, he was making himself crazy. It was so good he really didn’t want to stop, and why should they stop?

His hands were on the buttons of her jeans when he felt the change not only in himself but in her. It was Krimakov and he was there, just over their shoulders. Waiting. He was close, too close. Krimakov was out there, only it wasn’t really Krimakov now. Whoever he was, he was a madman. Adam sighed, kissed her once more, then once again, and said, “I want you very much, but now, at this moment, we’ve got to solve this thing, Becca.”

“I know,” she said when she could speak. “I’m getting myself back together. I’m getting myself focused now. You’re quite a distraction, Adam, it’s hard.” She pulled away from him, stiffened her legs. “Okay, I’m ready to think again.”

“I promise there’ll be more,” he said, grabbing her and giving her one last kiss. “How about a lifetime full of more?”

She gave him a dazzling smile. “Given that gorgeous modern kitchen and how I believe, without a doubt, that you’re about the best kisser in the whole world, I think bunches of years might be a wonderful thing.” Then she looked at his groin and he nearly expired on the spot.

“Good,” he said finally, just a slight shiver in his voice, and she loved the way those dark eyes of his were brilliant with pleasure in the afternoon light shining in through the windows. “Now, let’s do it.”

Two hours, three cups of coffee, and a demolished plate of Wheat Thins and cheddar cheese later, Adam looked up. “I was going over my notes on Krimakov’s travel out of Greece over the years. It’s been here all the time, just staring up at me, and I didn’t see it until now.” He gave her a mad grin, jumped up, and gathered her beneath her arms and lifted her, then swung her in a circle. He kissed her once, then again, and set her back down. He rubbed his hands together. “Hot damn, Becca, I think I’ve got the answer.”

She was laughing, stroking her hands over his arms, so excited she couldn’t hold still. “Come on, Adam. What is it? Spill the beans.”

“Krimakov went to England six times. His trips to England stopped about five years ago.”

“And?”

“I never stopped to wonder why the hell he went to England all those times, until now. Becca, think about it. Why did he go? To see a former colleague, to see a friend from the good old days? Not a woman, he’d remarried, so no, I don’t think so.”

She said slowly, “When he moved to Crete, he was alone. No relatives with him. Nobody.”

“Yeah, but his files had been purged. Remember, there wasn’t even anything about his first wife. It was like she never existed, but she did. So why did the KGB purge her?”

Becca said slowly, “Because she was important, because-” Suddenly, her eyes gleamed. “Oh my God. Sherlock is right. It isn’t Krimakov, but neither is it a friend or a former colleague. It’s someone a whole lot closer to him.”

“Yep. Somebody so close he’s nearly wearing his skin. We’re nearly there, Becca. The timing of his visits -they’re in the early fall or very late spring. Every one of them.”

“Like the beginning or the ending of school terms,” Becca said slowly. “And then they stop like there’s no more school.” Then she remembered what had happened in the gym in Riptide, and it all fell together.

When they got back to Thomas’s house, only Thomas and Hatch were there, their conversation desultory, both of them looking so depressed that Adam nearly told Hatch to go smoke a cigarette. Becca heard Hatch cursing. It sounded like Paul Hogan and his sexy Aussie accent.

“Cheer up, everyone,” Adam said. “Becca and I have a surprise for you. One that will get you dancing on the ceiling. All we’ve got to do now is have Savich turn on MAX and send him to England. Now we’ve got a chance.” He bent down and kissed Becca, right in front of Thomas. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek. “Yes, we do,” she said.

The doorbell rang, making everyone suddenly very alert and very focused. It was Dr. Breaker. “Hello, Savich.” He nodded to everyone else. “We’ve found something none of you is going to believe.” And he told them about the very slight abnormalities in Becca’s blood that a tech had caught. Then he checked Becca’s shoulder, and finally he checked her upper arm. It wasn’t long before he looked up and said, “I feel something, right here, just beneath her skin. It’s small, flexible.”

Adam nodded. “The visit to Riptide makes sense now. You know what’s in your arm, don’t you, Becca?”

“Yes,” she said. “Now all of us know.” She raised her hand when her father would have begun arguments. “No, I’m not leaving. No more people are going to die in my place, like Agent Marlane. No one is going to be bait in my stead. No, no arguments. I stay here with you. Hey, I’ve got my Coonan.”

For the first time in more nights than she could count, Becca wanted to stay awake, stay alert, keep watch. He was close. She wanted to see him with clear eyes and a clear mind and her Coonan in her hand. She wanted to shoot him between the eyes. And she wanted to know why he was doing this. Was he really mad? Psychotic?

Oh damn, she didn’t think she’d be able to hang on. She was nearly light-headed she was so tired. She’d been so hyped up the past couple of nights, she’d just lain there and blinked at the rising moon outside the bedroom window.

Adam had insisted on tucking her in. She wanted him to stay just a little longer, but she knew he couldn’t. He kissed her, just a nibble on her earlobe, and said against her ear, “No, I don’t want another cold shower. But dream of me, Becca, okay? I’ve got the first watch. It starts soon.”

“Be careful, Adam.”

“I will, everyone will. Try to sleep, sweetheart. He knows the house. He knows which room is Thomas’s. We’ve got Thomas well guarded.” He kissed her once again and rose. “Get some sleep.”

She didn’t want to. After he eased out of her bedroom door, closing it quietly behind him, she sat up in bed, thinking, remembering, analyzing. She was asleep in under six minutes. She dreamed, but not of the terror that was very close now, not of Adam.

She found herself in a hospital, walking down long, empty corridors. White, so much white, unending, going on and on, forever. She was looking for her mother. She smelled ether fumes, sweet and heavy, the ammonia scent of urine, the stench of vomit. She opened each white door along the corridor. All the beds were empty, the white sheets stretched military tight. No one. Where were the patients?

So long, the hallway just went on and on and there were moans coming from behind all those doors, people in pain, but there were no nurses, no doctors, no one at all. She knew the rooms were empty, she’d looked into all of them, yet the moans grew louder and louder.

Where was her mother? She called out for her, then she started running down the corridor, screaming her mother’s name. The moans from those empty rooms grew louder and louder until-

“Hello, Rebecca.”