The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [706]
“No,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. “This isn’t possible. You couldn’t have found that chip. It’s plastic mixed with biochemical adhesives, almost immediately becomes one with your skin. After just a few minutes, no one could even tell it was there, least of all you. No, you weren’t even aware of it. You and everyone else were just worried about that dart in your shoulder. I fooled you, I fooled all of you. You were all so worried about that ridiculous dart in her shoulder, about that stupid note I wrapped around it.”
“For a while, that’s right,” Thomas said. “But actually, it was an analysis of handwriting by some very smart FBI agents that started your downfall. I had samples of your father’s handwriting. They compared yours to his. Remember the notes you wrote to Mr. McBride in Riptide? There was no comparison, of course, so it couldn’t be Vasili.
“Then Adam remembered that your father had traveled to England quite a number of times. He wondered why, particularly since the visits were always at the beginning of the school term or at the end. He knew your father had remarried, so it probably wasn’t a woman he was visiting. He’d purged files, even your mother’s name, and we wondered why he would do that. After all, who cared if he had a wife, now dead, or any children?
“It wasn’t tough then to track you down, the son whose father had sent him to England to be educated, so that one day he could avenge the murder of his dearest mother. You were at that private boys’ school at Sundowns.”
Thomas continued, “Your father molded you, taught you to hate me, to hate everything I stood for, programmed you for this.”
“I was not programmed. I do this all of my own free will. I am brilliant. I have won. Even though you found out about me, it is I who am standing here in control. It is I who run this show.”
Thomas said, “Fine. You run the show. Now tell us how you got into NYU Hospital without being stopped by the FBI agents.”
He laughed, preened. “I was a young boy, so sorry-looking in my slouchy clothes, my pants halfway to my knees, and my baseball cap, holding my broken arm, and everyone wanted to help me, to send me here, to send me there, and I came up to those stupid agents, crying about my arm, and then I shot them both. So easy, all of it. In the room when I saw neither of you were there, I just killed them, too, but with the woman, it was very close, too close. But I escaped. I was out of there before anyone realized what had happened.”
Thomas said, “Why, Mikhail? What did your father tell you to make you want to do this? What?”
“He didn’t make me do anything. He simply told me how you butchered my poor mother, went through her to get to him. You shot her in the head and laughed as my father held her until she died. Then you tried to kill him but he managed to get away. He told me that, and he began teaching me to prepare myself to avenge her. And I’m here now. I’ll kill you just as you killed my mother.”
“You killed your stepmother, didn’t you, and her children?” Becca said.
He laughed, actually laughed. “Yes, I hated her as much as she hated me. She didn’t want me ever to come back during my vacations. And her spawn—they weren’t all that surprised when I killed them because they had guessed that I hated them. As for her, she pleaded just like her pathetic daughter.”
Becca said, “And your own little brother? Your father’s other son?”
“I tried to kill him, burn him out of existence, just to leave ashes, but he survived. My father sent him to Switzerland, to this clinic that specializes in burns. He knew then what I’d done. I called him a coward, told him he’d let that wretched woman, those children, distract him from killing the man who butchered my mother. You know what he said? He said it over and over, tears in his eyes, wringing his goddamned hands—it had been an accident, he’d lied to me all those years. I didn’t believe him. He wanted it soft and easy—a woman in