The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [123]
Maybe it was nothing at all, just a phantom whisper from her exhausted brain or only a puff of wind that had sent a branch sweeping against the bedroom window. Yes, the sound was outside, not in her bedroom. Maybe it was in Simon’s bedroom, just down the hall. Had he awakened?
Lily continued to wait, gritty eyes staring around the dark room, listening.
She started to relax again when she heard a creak. Just a slight pressure on the oak floor could cause a creak, but it was there and it was close. In the air, no longer heard, but she still felt it. Lily waited, straining to hear, her heart pounding now.
The scattered carpets covering the oak floors would mask any creaks, make someone walking hard to hear.
Lily lurched upright, straining to see. Too late, she saw a shadow, moving fast, and something coming down at her. She felt a deadening pain like a sharp knife driving into her skull.
She fell back onto the pillow. Just before she passed out, she saw a face over her, a woman’s face, and she knew whose face it was. The mouth whispered, “Hi, little sister.”
• Sherlock couldn’t sleep. Dillon’s arm was heavy over her chest, and he was close and warm, his familiar scent in the air she breathed, but it didn’t help. Her brain wouldn’t turn off; it just kept moving, going over and over what they knew about Tammy, what they imagined but didn’t know.
When she couldn’t stand it anymore, Sherlock eased away from Savich, got out of bed, and pulled on her old blue wool robe. She wore socks to keep her feet warm against the oak floor.
She had to check the house again, just had to, though she’d already checked it three times, and Dillon had checked probably another three. She had to be sure. It was early Sunday morning, it was snowing, and Sean was at his grandmother’s, safe. When would she feel secure enough to bring him home? Ever? It had to end. Tammy had to do something; it had to end, sometime.
She hoped the four agents outside weren’t freezing their butts off. At least she knew they had hot coffee; she’d taken them a huge thermos about ten o’clock.
She got to the end of the hall and paused for a moment, feeling the house warm around her, breathing in its comforting smells. It took a moment, but Sherlock realized that something was different.
It was quiet in a way she wasn’t used to. Too quiet. She realized that the alarm was off, the very low hum you could barely hear wasn’t there. Panic lurched up into her throat.
She turned to look down the beautifully carved oak staircase. She saw dim light pooling at the bottom from the glass arch above the front door, snowflakes drifting lazily down. She took one step, then another, when a hand hit her square in the middle of the back. She screamed, or at least she thought she did, as she went head over heels down the stairs. Someone passed by her as she lay there facedown on a thick Persian carpet, the breath knocked out of her, barely hanging on to consciousness. She’d struck her head, struck everything on her body, and she could hardly move.
She thought she heard a moan, and then the figure was gone. The front door opened as she stared at it, yes, she was sure it was open, now fully open, because she felt a slice of cold air reach her face, and she shivered.
The front door stayed open. Only an instant passed before she realized what had happened. Someone had shoved her down the stairs. Someone had just gone out through the front door.
She managed to stagger to her feet, fear swamping her. Tammy Tuttle, it had to be her, but how? How had she gotten past the agents and into the house? Why hadn’t Sherlock seen her?
She threw back her head and yelled, “Dillon! Oh God, Dillon, come quickly!”
Savich and Simon appeared at the top of the stairs at the same time, both wearing only boxer shorts. A light went on.
“Sherlock!”
Savich was beside her, holding her tightly against