The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [645]
“Oh, God, Becca,” he said and squeezed her hard. “I swear I’ll get him, I swear it.”
She said nothing for a very long time. His knees were starting to hurt when she finally whispered against his neck, “Not if I can get him first.” She shuddered, then he felt her stiffen and slowly, slowly pull back from him. She said, “He was through with her, probably planning on leaving here, and so he killed her and buried her and then decided it would be fun to play this big joke on me.”
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”
“He’s still here, Adam. He’s close. I can feel him. It’s like something very black and heavy crawling over my skin.”
He said nothing.
“But why? I just don’t understand why he picked me. Why is he doing this to me?”
Again, Adam said nothing, but he thought, If Krimakov is really dead, then there isn’t a motive, and I don’t have the foggiest idea, either, why he picked you.
***
Becca couldn’t get Linda Cartwright out of her mind. She kept picturing her, lying there, her face smashed, and no one to take care of her for hour upon hour.
Sherlock handed her a cup of coffee, steam rising from the mug like cigarette smoke. “You only slept a couple of hours, Becca. Here, drink this.”
“None of us slept for more than a couple of hours,” Becca said. “Where are Adam and Savich?”
“Adam is out talking to Dave and Chuck. They just took over outside patrol. He’s going to get some other people here, some of his own people, to free up these guys.”
“Maybe Hatch is coming.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, Becca added, “I heard Adam talking to him on the phone. Yeah, I was eavesdropping, so Adam had to tell me. He said Hatch speaks six languages, has lots of contacts, is really smart, and smokes. Adam is always trying to get him to stop smoking by threatening to fire him.”
Sherlock laughed and lifted her mug to toast Becca’s. “I want to meet this guy. If he dares to light up a cigarette, Savich won’t threaten to fire him, he’ll take his head off.”
“So Adam doesn’t work for Thomas?”
“No, not now. They’ve been friends for a very long time. Adam is sort of like a son to Thomas. No, I won’t tell you any more about him.”
Becca didn’t say anything.
“Listen, Becca, it doesn’t matter right now. Now, my husband is concerned that the local cops won’t be able to do a thing about Linda Cartwright because they’re going in completely blind. But we agreed this is the way we’ll play it for a while. The cops have been there for a while now, Becca. They’re taking care of her. But they won’t be able to figure anything out because we’re holding back. That really sticks in everyone’s craw, probably always will.”
“Sherlock, do you know who Krimakov is?”
Sherlock couldn’t help it, her eyes gave her away before she could pull down the automatic blinders, and she wanted to kick herself. She shrugged. “Yes, I know. But it would have to be his ghost who killed Linda Cartwright. Evidently, Thomas got information that he was killed in an auto accident just a short time ago in Crete, where he supposedly lived. So it’s all academic. If he’s dead, then he can’t have anything to do with this.”
“And Thomas has double-checked that this guy is really dead?”
“I would assume so.”
“If this Krimakov were alive, and he were behind this terror, why would he be doing it to me in particular? He’s what—Russian? What could he possibly have against me? Why would Thomas think it was him?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, lying cleanly now because she’d had time to slip her mask into place.
“Who is Thomas, Sherlock? Please, you’ve got to tell me.”
“Just forget him, Becca,” she said over her shoulder. “Drop it. Give it time. Now, I want some more coffee. Can I make