When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [92]
Kit lightly touched my arm. “You okay, Frannie?”
Not really. I had seen a lot of animals die, but it hadn’t prepared me for the sight of a viciously murdered man and woman, especially people who I’d known. “I’m doing all right, I guess. Still on my feet, anyway,” I whispered.
“Two shots for each victim. Entry an inch or so apart,” Kit muttered.
“Kit, this just happened. Neither body is rigorous or discolored. We just missed the killers. Or, they just missed us.”
Neither Henrich Kroner nor Jilly had been friends of mine, but I’d known them. I didn’t like Henrich, but David and I had come to a couple of parties at this house.
I had sat in one of these yellow lounge chairs. I wondered if Dr. Anthony Peyser had ever been here? Could he be responsible for these deaths?
Bad thoughts were repeating in my brain. That happens under stress. I couldn’t help remembering that I saw Kroner at Frank McDonough’s the night Frank drowned. Or that Henrich Kroner had visited my house in Bear Bluff after David was killed. It was so awful, and none of it seemed coincidental.
“We have to go back to Carole’s,” I said, grabbing Kit’s arm. “We have to get her and the kids out of there now.”
They were killing all the witnesses.
Chapter 97
KIT WAS AFRAID, but he was trying not to show it for Frannie’s sake. He pulled over at a 7-Eleven on Baseline Road in Boulder. The last twenty-four hours were testing everything he’d learned as an agent, and some things he hadn’t. He did remember an old saying from his training at Quantico: Fall seven times, stand up eight.
“I’ll be quick,” he said as he ripped open the 4x4’s door. “I’m going to try to talk to Peter Stricker at the FBI. I’ve got to make him believe me, which might not be so easy.”
“Okay,” Frannie said, “but please hurry. I’m worried about Carole and the kids.”
Kit walked quickly toward the pay phone outside the brightly-lit convenience store. He was still feeling alone in all of this. That’s just the way it was. Realistically, there was only so much one agent could do. Why in hell had they shut him down? It made no sense and it was scary as hell.
He didn’t want to call Peter Stricker. Not even now. It was like asking to be insulted and browbeaten and turned down again. It had been going on for more than a year. The same thing, over and over.
Even though it was past seven in Washington, he decided to try Stricker at his office first. He had Stricker’s home phone number—they had been friends, right?—but calling there was a last resort. Not a really good move.
Peter’s secretary was still working at the office. She picked up after one ring.
“Cindy, this is Tom Brennan on the line. I have to talk to Peter. It’s an emergency.”
“Mr. Stricker is on the road,” the secretary said. “I’ll give him your message when he calls in.”
Kit yelled into the phone. “Damn it, Cindy, people are dying. You beep Peter’s number right now. I’ll hold the line. I’m not going away this time. Tell him there have been more deaths, and it’s his goddamn fault.”
It didn’t take long for Cindy to reach Stricker, and Kit wondered if he’d been in the office all along. Probably, he had been.
He heard Stricker’s familiar whisper. “Tom, what is it?” He wished he could reach through the fiber-optic phone lines and strangle him.
“There’s been another murder. Two murders. No, actually, Peter, there have been a lot more murders than that. Now let me talk, let me finish what I have to tell. Don’t say a goddamn word.”
“Tom, where are you?”
“Not a fricking word!”
“I understand. Of course. Go on.”
“All right, well I’m not in Nantucket. I haven’t been in Nan-tucket. I’m in Colorado, which is where I ought to be, which is where the Bureau should have sent me, where you should have sent me, Peter, if you’d listened to my warnings.”
“You’ve seen someone murdered. You said—”
“Shut the hell up. Yes, I just left the house of Dr. Henrich Kroner. He’s dead,