“Hold on!” Cal slammed down on the brakes, sending them into a spin. The SUV slammed into one of the construction blocks, sending smoke pouring from under the hood. They all stared beyond at the overturned Camry. The driver’s door was shoved open and Basara, blood streaming down his face, rolled out and came up to his knees. He saw them on the other side of the concrete blocks, cars stacked around them at an angle, their blaring horns filling the air.
He raised his gun but saw they were blocked in, and ran across the traffic circle toward the Lincoln Memorial and its crowds of tourists.
Sherlock and Kelly were out of the SUV, running after him, weaving through tourists and traffic. Kelly held up her creds and yelled, “FBI agents!” every few steps, but a father didn’t jerk his small child out of Kelly’s path fast enough. She tripped and went down. Sherlock was ahead of her, saw Basara running toward the Lincoln Memorial, people parting in front of him at the sight of his gun and the blood running down his face.
Please, don’t let him grab a hostage.
She yelled, “Everyone down!”
Basara heard her, stopped, and she knew he was going take a teenage girl standing on the steps, but in the last instant, he turned, deaf to all the screaming people, and his eyes met Sherlock’s. He fired three shots, and the last one hit her in the chest. Sherlock staggered back with the god-awful pain. For an instant she couldn’t breathe. She fell to her knees, wondering blankly if her ribs were broken under the Kevlar. She flattened herself onto her stomach and forced herself to calm, held her Glock steady with both hands, her eyes never leaving him. Before he could fire again, she got off three shots. She watched them strike his neck, his shoulder, his chest. He froze on the wide step for a moment, his eyes locked to hers before he collapsed and tumbled down the steps.
She jumped to her feet and yelled, “Stay back!” as she ran to him, kicked away his gun that had fallen to the first step. He was lying sprawled on his back, at an angle on the steps, his chest heaving, blood fountaining out of his neck. She dropped to her knees beside him.
She heard Dillon shouting, but she didn’t look away from Basara.
His eyes were filming over, but still he whispered, his words thick with blood, “I wanted to bomb you to hell.”
“That didn’t work out for you, did it?”
He licked the blood off his lips. “I can’t die. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
His head fell to the side and his eyes stared up at the sky, seeing nothing now. He was dead. It didn’t make up for Nasim’s murder, but it was all they’d get. Sherlock stared down at him, aware now of a dozen people beginning to crowd around her. She heard Dillon’s voice ordering them back. Kelly came running up to fall on her knees beside Sherlock, Cal on her heels.
Sherlock rose slowly, Basara’s blood covering the front of her white shirt, and felt Dillon’s arm go around her.
It was over.
SAVICH HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
Tuesday night
By the fourth verse of their sing-along of “The Little Kid with the Greatest Mom,” Sean was finally down for the count. It was a country-and-western song Savich had written for him when he’d been two years old. The words weren’t all that good, but then again, neither was Sherlock’s voice. It wasn’t a problem. Sean didn’t know any better. They stood together, looking down at their sleeping son. Savich kissed her temple. “Welcome home.”
She turned in his arms and pressed her cheek against his neck. “I hated being away from you and Sean.” She gave a little laugh. “I’ve told you that half a dozen times since I walked in the door.”
“Keep saying it, makes my heart settle down. I don’t know who was happier to see you, Sean or Astro. It was me, actually.” He pulled her tight against him again.
“I always had agents around me, Dillon, you know that.”
“You could have been under a blanket of agents and I’d still feel the same way.”
She reared back, touched her fingertips to his face. “I feel the same way about you, but it’s over now, finally over. Basara is dead.” She blinked. “Hard to believe it all started less than a week ago at JFK.” She saw Nasim’s face, Marie Claire’s face, and turned it off. “The thought of Basara using terrorist acts to cover up his assassinations—murdering hundreds of people for the sole purpose of murdering one—and all for money. I think about all those people now dead because they happened to be riding the TGV in France. And what if he’d succeeded in bombing Saint Patrick’s and Saint Paul’s? I wonder how many years this goes back? How many people he killed? He was a psychopath, Dillon, evil to the core.”
“He’s dead now, his evil with him,” Savich said, and thought of how close she’d come to being his next victim. “As to the millions of dollars he’s got stashed in accounts in Switzerland, we’ll find them.
“You know what I can’t get over? Basara would still be alive, still be in business, if he’d used his money and his contacts to disappear when he had the chance. But he couldn’t accept losing. He needed someone to blame, and he picked you, Sherlock—a woman, no less—and made you into his nemesis.” He shook his head, felt the fear for her well up again from deep inside him, tamped it down. He kissed her, held her tightly. “Welcome home, for the twelfth time. You’re exhausted, sweetheart. You ready for bed?”
He was right, she’d been so tired she’d thought she would pass out, but not now. No, not now. She gave him a slow smile, took his hand, and led him to their bedroom. He was big and warm, and she loved him to the ends of the earth.
Savich stripped down to boxers and a T-shirt in under thirty seconds, but when he turned he saw she was lying in the middle of the bed, fully clothed, sound asleep. She never woke up when he undressed her, slipped her nightgown over her head. He looked at her beloved face for a very long time before he turned out the lights and went to sleep.
• • •
SAVICH DREAMED he was freezing. Frigid water was pouring over him, drenching his T-shirt and boxers, hitting his face. Powerful waves were slamming him back against something hard and unyielding—a rock. The water receded, only to roar back against him, pounding at him, freezing him to his bones. He tried to get away from the waves, but he couldn’t move. Thick ropes held him tight against a huge rock that jutted out from the sea. What sea?
He was dreaming he was strapped down to a rock? He pulled and jerked with all his strength against the ropes, tried to work his hands free from beneath the thick hemp, but he couldn’t. The ropes were wet from the freezing waves, and growing tighter.
It was no dream. It was Dalco.
Savich heard a loud sweeping noise and looked up to see a huge black eagle with an enormous wingspan circling above him. It swooped low until its black wings covered him, and it dug its beak directly into his side. The pain was so unspeakable he nearly passed out. The eagle pulled out its bloody beak and soared upward, then dove down at him again the next moment. Again it sent its beak into him, digging deeper, pulling and ripping, until he screamed from the horrendous pain. When the eagle pulled its beak out of his body again, Savich looked at its black opaque eyes. The eagle returned his stare, looked back down at him for several seconds. Its eyes weren’t opaque after all. Dalco was behind them.
The eagle sent its beak into his side yet again, burrowing deeper, hollowing him, gashing out parts of him. He nearly passed out. He caught himself. No, it was Dalco, he couldn’t let that madman win. He had to fight the pain, had to figure out what was happening. He was tied to a rock, couldn’t get free. A huge eagle was digging its beak into his side. What was this all about? Who was Dalco playing this time? Was he playing out the Prometheus myth with himself as the eagle? Zeus sent an eagle every day to tear out and eat Prometheus’s liver only to have it grow back again every night, and repeated the cycle endlessly, at least until Hercules saved him, eventually, maybe, depending on who was telling the stor
y. It was Zeus’s punishment because Prometheus had dared to give mankind the gift of fire.
Dalco imagined himself as powerful as Zeus? Savich yelled, “What’s wrong, Dalco? Can’t you come up with anything original?”
The eagle sent a tearing cry into the heavens, but then it hovered above him, apparently in no hurry. Talking to it would do no good; the eagle wouldn’t talk back. And Dalco had seen to it he was physically helpless. He pictured Winkel’s Cave in his mind, focused as hard as he could on sending them both into the large chamber again, but nothing changed. He pictured Dalco standing on a huge alligator, lazily cruising through the green waters of the Everglades, its jaws slowly opening, its black eyes staring up at him. But he was still on the rock, the eagle above him. He pictured a purple sea, a wooden raft riding the waves, and he set Dalco on the raft, alone and in an open sea.
Nothing happened.
The relentless waves were still pounding him, washing into the open wound in his side. Remarkably, the water was so cold it numbed the pain, but for only an instant.
The eagle screamed as it dove at him again, covering Savich’s head with its wings, digging its beak deep into the gaping wound in his side. And again it lazily took flight, hovering over him, flapping its black wings, staring down at him, his blood dripping from its beak.
He yelled to be back in his bed, but nothing changed. Why couldn’t he change anything? Would he die in this dreamscape, tied forever to this rock? He screamed, “Griffin, help me!”
Griffin stood on the rock above him, nearly hurled off the rock by the ferocious wind. Waves splashed around his legs, pulling at him. His eyes were wide with shock. Savich watched him grab the thick ropes to steady himself.
He scrambled down the side of the rock, using the ropes that bound Savich to brace himself. He began working a knot. The eagle dove toward them, Savich’s blood still dripping from its beak, then, suddenly, it pulled back, its wings flapping madly, screaming at them. It slammed into Griffin and sunk its beak into his shoulder, nearly knocking him off the rock and into the sea. Griffin managed to hold on. He whirled around and struck the eagle’s head with his fist. The eagle screamed and pulled back, keeping its distance. “It’s watching us,” Griffin said. “It doesn’t know what to do now that there are two of us.”
Griffin felt warm blood on his shoulder, running down his arm. He ignored it, didn’t slow. He’d been in a deep sleep when he’d heard Savich’s shout, and the next instant he was on this huge rock in a nightmare he understood quickly enough.
Dalco.
Griffin managed to loosen the rope enough for Savich to pull an arm free and help him. The eagle shrieked, preparing to dive again, but now Savich was nearly free of the ropes. But where would they go? The frigid water below them was filled with jagged black rocks, violent waves spuming over them.
The eagle continued shrieking at them, its huge wings flapping, hanging in the air, as if uncertain what to do. The skies burst open, hurling down a torrent of icy rain on them, nearly dragging Griffin off the rock and into the sea below.
Savich tried to talk, but it was beyond him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his side. He knew he’d see his mangled flesh. The pain was so crippling he couldn’t seem to draw a breath. Everything was blurring, he was going to pass out. Griffin would be helpless with him, and they would both die. He saw blood dripping off Griffin’s shoulder, knew there was nothing he could do to stanch the blood. Griffin was wearing only a soaked T-shirt and pajama bottoms.
The violent rain slammed against him, filling the wound in his side. He heard Griffin shout, “Hang on!” He saw Griffin bend down and pull up his pajama leg. He was wearing an ankle holster with a Glock 380 pistol in it. Then he saw it was in Griffin’s hand. The eagle came through the cascading rain, diving down at them, its wings flapping wildly, shrieking, and Griffin waited until it was nearly on them and then shot it square between the eyes.
Its head flew off, feathers and blood mixing with the torrential rain. Still it hovered, still flapped its wings, as blood streamed from its neck. It flew away and disappeared into the sheets of thick, gray rain.
“Dillon! Dillon! Wake up, you’re moaning, wake up!”
He heard her voice, felt hard slaps on his face, and she was yelling over and over, “Dillon, wake up!”
His eyes flew open. He sucked in a breath and stared up at her, saw her her outline in the predawn light. “Sherlock,” he said, and stilled, waiting for the crippling pain, but it didn’t come. There was no gaping wound in his side, his flesh was smooth, he was whole. He felt pain from the ropes, but it was fading, and when he looked at his wrists, his arms, there was nothing. He felt cold, but he wasn’t freezing. Sherlock pulled him against her, stroking his hair, kissing his face again and again. “It’s all right now, Dillon, I’ve got you. It was Dalco, wasn’t it? He can’t get you again now. It’s all right, you’re safe.”
He managed to say against her neck, “Griffin was with me. I have to call him, see that he’s okay.”
She scrambled over him, grabbed his cell, and speed-dialed Griffin.
Griffin answered on the first ring. “Savich? Are you all right?”
Savich closed his eyes against his relief at hearing Griffin’s voice. “Yes, I’m all right. Sore, cold, but no open wounds. Your shoulder?”
Griffin worked his shoulder. “Like you, I’m sore, but there’s no wound, no bruise, nothing at all. It’s like it never happened, but it did.” He paused, then, “That was a hell of a thing, Savich.”
Savich smiled. “It was that exactly. Thank you for coming, Griffin. Thank you for saving my life. A gun, I couldn’t believe it when you pulled out a gun and shot the eagle’s head off.”
“After what you told me, I’ve been wearing it to bed with me for three nights now. Do you think Dalco’s dead?”
“I guess we’ll find out when we visit the Alcotts tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. I’ll call you.”
When he hung up, he realized he was cold again. He pulled Sherlock close until he was warm. She said against his shoulder, “You can tell me all about this, but not now. Now you need to sleep.”
And he did.
ALCOTT COMPOUND
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Wednesday morning
It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Griffin said as he got out of the Porsche into the fresh morning air. It was so quiet he could hear a crow cawing high in the air above him.
Savich knocked on the front door. He heard the coming footfalls, recognized the steps as Deliah Alcott’s. When she opened the door, she looked at each of them, and nodded. “Agent Savich, Agent Hammersmith. I’ve been expecting you. I thought it best I be here alone when you arrived, after that scene between you and Liggert yesterday.” She suddenly smiled. “Thank you. Finally, it’s over. Come with me, see for yourselves.”
Savich and Griffin followed her past the pentacle hanging on the front door and down a long hallway fragrant with the scent of lavender, to the very end room. She stopped in front of the closed door, drew a deep breath, quietly opened it, and stepped inside.
It was a large room with old-fashioned furniture, lace curtains on the windows, rag rugs on the polished maple floor, an old person’s room. There was an ancient iron-framed bed against the far wall, and on it lay Ms. Louisa, utterly still, deeply asleep or unconscious. She was wearing a white high-necked nightgown, a white bedspread drawn to her neck. Her hair was in a skinny braid over her shoulder, as gray as her still face. The nightstand beside her was ablaze with lighted green, white, and gold candles surrounding a plate overflowing with herbs and dried flowers.
Deliah looked down at her. “I heard her scream after midnight. When I came running in she was on the floor, clutching her head. Then she fell over unconscious. When I touched her I knew she was gone. How strange it is, but do you know, I miss the sound of those infernal knitting needles of h
ers?” She turned to them. “You know now, don’t you? You know what she was?”
“Until this moment I wasn’t completely sure whether she was Stefan Dalco,” Savich said.
“You thought I was this Dalco character?”
“Perhaps, for a short time. I quickly realized how much you loved Brakey, how you’d go to any lengths to protect him. You would never make Brakey a murderer.”
“She came after you again?”
Savich nodded. “She would have killed me if Griffin hadn’t shot her. I was helpless until then.”
“Actually,” Griffin said, “a huge black eagle was attacking Savich. I shot its head off.”
Deliah picked up a large book from under the bedside table, handed it to Savich. “She liked her Greek mythology. She was studying this.” He and Griffin looked down at a painting of a naked Prometheus chained to a rock over a violent sea, an eagle hovering above him, wings flapping madly. Savich nodded, handed it back. “Yes, that was what she fashioned for me.” He turned to stare down at the still figure who’d had so much power. He remembered the horrific pain in his side.
Deliah said, “She was always bragging how she was the most powerful witch who’d ever lived. But you beat her, Agents, you beat her.”
“What she was,” Savich said, “was a powerful psychic who used the symbols of witchcraft. And she was quite mad. I’ve known a couple others like her, both of them terrifying.”
“Why isn’t she in a hospital, Mrs. Alcott?” Griffin asked, looking down at the slack face.
“It would do absolutely no good.”
“They could monitor her, feed her intravenously.”