The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [0]
The Cove
The Maze
The Target
The Edge
Riptide
Catherine Coulter
Table of Contents
The Cove
The Maze
The Target
The Edge
Riptide
CATHERINE COULTER
The COVE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE COVE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1996 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1517-3
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): July 2001
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
Epilogue
1
SOMEONE WAS WATCHING her. She tugged on the black wig, flattening it against her ears, and quickly put on another coat of deep-red lipstick, holding the mirror up so she could see behind her.
The young Marine saw her face in the mirror and grinned at her. She jumped as if she’d been shot. Just stop it. He’s harmless, he’s just flirting. He couldn’t be more than eighteen, his head all shaved, his cheeks as smooth as hers. She tilted the mirror to see more. The woman sitting beside him was reading a Dick Francis novel. In the seat behind them a young couple were leaning into each other, asleep.
The seat in front of her was empty. The Greyhound driver was whistling Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven,” a song that always twisted up her insides. The only one who seemed to notice her was that young Marine, who’d gotten on at the last stop in Portland. He was probably going home to see his eighteen-year-old girlfriend. He wasn’t after her, surely, but someone was. She wouldn’t be fooled again. They’d taught her so much. No, she’d never be fooled again.
She put the mirror back into her purse and fastened the flap. She stared at her fingers, at the white line where the wedding ring had been until three days ago. She’d tried to pull it off for the past six months but hadn’t managed to do it. She had been too out of it even to fasten the Velcro on her sneakers—when they allowed her sneakers—much less work off a tight ring.
Soon, she thought, soon she would be safe. Her mother would be safe too. Oh, God, Noelle—sobbing in the middle of the night when she didn’t know anyone could hear her. But without her there, they couldn’t do a thing to Noelle. Odd how she rarely thought of Noelle as her mother anymore, not like she had ten years before, when Noelle had listened to all her teenage problems, taken her shopping, driven her to her soccer games. So much they’d done together. Before. Yes, before that night when she’d seen her father slam his fist into her mother’s chest and she’d heard the cracking of at least two ribs.
She’d run in, screaming at him to leave her mother alone, and jumped on his back. He was so surprised, so shocked, that he didn’t strike her. He shook her off, turned, and shouted down at her, “Mind your own business, Susan! This doesn’t concern you.” She stared at him, all the fear and hatred she felt for him at that moment clear on her face.
“Doesn’t concern me? She’s my mother, you bastard. Don’t you dare hit her again!”
He looked calm, but she wasn’t fooled;