Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [148]
“Yes, Sheriff. Thank you.”
“Any time. Well, do give my best to Ms. Matlock.”
“You can be sure that I will, Sheriff.” Adam heard her breathing. She was on the line in the kitchen. She’d listened in, heard everything, hadn’t said a word. His heart was pounding slow, heavy strokes. He was so furious he couldn’t think of anything to say. Then he opened his mouth and shouted into the receiver at the top of his lungs, “BECCA!”
She cleared her throat. “Ah, Adam, I’ve got to go to the hospital now.”
He breathed deeply, got hold of himself, and said, “Not yet. Bring me my apple. I’ll even give you a bite before I wash your mouth out with soap for those whoppers you told me.”
“Sorry, Adam, the apples aren’t ripe enough. You know Sheriff Gaffney, he exaggerates, really, he—”
“After I wash your mouth out, I’m going to maybe shave your head. Then if I’m still pissed off, I’m going to make you change that green tile in the bathroom, then—”
“I’m outta here, Adam. I love you. Er, I’ll buy ripe apples while I’m out.”
She hung up the phone.
“BECCA!”
HEMLOCK BAY
I wish to thank the following people at FBI headquarters and at Quantico for their generosity and enthusiasm:
William Hayden Matens, Special Agent, retired
Thomas B. Locke, Deputy Assistant Director, Inspection Division
David R. Knowlton, Assistant Director, Inspection Division
Wade M. Jackson, Unit Chief, Firearms Training Unit
Gary J. Hutchison, Agent Instructor
Alan H. Marshall, Special Agent, Indoor Range
Jeffrey Higginbotham, Assistant Director, Training Division
Douglas W. Deedrick, Unit Chief, Information and Evidence Management Unit
Lester “Wingtips” Davis, Officer, National Academy Association
Ruben Garcia, Jr., Assistant Director, Criminal Investigative Division
Kenneth McCabe, Section Chief, Laboratory Division
Michael J. Perry, Firearms Instructor
Sheri A. Farrar, Deputy Assistant Director, Administrative Services Division
Royce Curtin, Special Agent, Hostage Rescue Team
Stephen R. Band, Unit Chief, Behavior Sciences Unit
Lew Elliott, who teaches cops how to fight
I wish to thank my husband, Dr. Anton Pogany, yet again, for his excellent instincts and his eagle eye that never misses a thing—he remains the Editor from Hell.
To Ildiko deAngelis, director of George Washington University Museum Studies Program. She is very smart, very experienced in both law and art history, and has extensive knowledge of museum procedures both in the United States and abroad. She’s answered every question I could come up with and provided me valuable insights into a very esoteric world.
She’s also the best sister-in-law a body could have. Thank you, Ildi, for your time and for sharing your magnificent brain with me.
—CC
ONE
Near the Plum River, Maryland
It was a chilly day in late October. A stiff wind whipped the last colorful leaves off the trees. The sun was shining down hard and bright on the dilapidated red barn that hadn’t been painted in forty years. Streaks of washed-out red were all that was left of the last paint job. There was no charm left, at all.
FBI Special Agent Dillon Savich eased around the side of the barn, his SIG in his right hand. It had taken discipline and practice, but he’d learned to move so quietly that he could sneak up on a mouse. Three agents, one of them his wife, were some twenty feet behind him, covering him, ready to fan out in any direction necessary, all of them wearing Kevlar vests. A dozen more agents were slowly working their way up the other side of the barn, their orders to wait for a signal from Savich. Sheriff Dade of Jedbrough County and three deputies were stationed in the thick stand of maple trees just thirty feet behind them. One of the deputies, a sharpshooter, had his sights trained on the barn.
So far the operation was going smoothly, which, Savich supposed, surprised everyone, although no one spoke of it. He hoped it would continue the way it had been planned, but chances were things would get screwed