Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(28)

The witch, or whatever he was, cocked his head to one side, sending more of his black hair to fall out from under his hood and slide along his face.

“Enough of this melodrama. Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Stefan Dalco. I have told you what I will do.”

“Is that name part of this Romanian fantasy? Who are you, really? How does all this concern you?”

“I will kill you before I allow you to find that out. You are not here to question me. I brought you here to stop all these questions, whatever it takes. And I will.”

“You say you have that power, yet you’re afraid to tell me who you are?”

Savich felt a burst of anger from Dalco, so real he almost smiled. “You are nothing like the others,” Dalco said. “They could not think beyond their fear, they could not reason. For a time they believed they were mad. Yet you remain yourself, even here. You are not a witch, you are something else entirely. There are not many like us, you know.”

“If that’s the case, you can stop looking like a Hollywood villain from a melodrama. Why don’t you pull your hood back, show me your face?”

A pause, then a stiff voice: “I provide the trappings one expects to see. These hands, for example”—he raised narrow hands with bulging purple veins and long, thin fingers, their nails filed to a point. “A fine touch, don’t you think?”

Savich didn’t answer. He was looking toward the medieval tapestries. Only now they were large dirty-brown woven rugs hanging on the walls, as if Dalco had lost concentration and the hunting scenes had disappeared. Interesting. Was Dalco really strong enough to hold him here? Until when? Until he died?

He looked back at Dalco. “Why did you kill Sparky Carroll and Kane Lewis?”

Savich knew he wasn’t wrong; a spasm of pain had crossed the shadowed face. For what? Dalco said, “All you need to know is that they deserved death. At my hands, as do you for your interference.”

Dalco took two steps toward him, raised a hand that held a long black-handled Athame, and hurled it at Savich, but Savich had already fallen to his side and jerked one of the big chairs in front of him. The Athame struck the wooden back and sank deep, not three inches above his head.

He had no weapons, nothing to protect himself. He heard Dalco’s harsh breathing. “You are too arrogant, too proud to spare. You will not give up. I will not let you destroy me.”

He saw the flash of another Athame in Dalco’s hand. He was coming closer and he would kill him this time. Savich focused, pictured Winkel’s Cave in Maestro, Virginia, a place he’d dreamed about several times, a place where he and many of his friends could easily have died. He pictured both of them standing in the large chamber beneath a ceiling of incredible stalactites.

Suddenly they were both standing in the cave.

Dalco stood very still, staring at the walls. “How did you do that?”

Savich had no answer, for either of them. He’d simply willed both of them out of Dalco’s illusion and into one of his own. It had worked.

Dalco said, his voice thoughtful, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? And you didn’t tell me.”

“Why should I tell you anything? Would you like to be buried here in my cave, Dalco?” Savich pointed to the wall. “Look at your own personal coffin I fashioned especially for you.”

Dalco looked at a coffin carved into the stone, his name carved in large letters on it. He stumbled, then seemed to get hold of himself and jerked back to face Savich, shaking his head back and forth. “No, this can’t be possible.” He looked panicked, turned and started to run, and suddenly everything disappeared.

“Dillon! Dillon! Come on, wake up!”

It was Sherlock’s voice and she was shaking him, slapping him. He was gasping for breath, drenched in sweat.

“Come on, wake up. You’ve had a nightmare, a doozy.”

He grabbed her wrist, pulled her down close to his face. “I’m okay now. Thanks for waking me.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him up, kissed his nose, his mouth, held him hard against her. “Was it because of what happened in New York?”

“Actually,” he said slowly as he pulled away, “it wasn’t.” He stroked her wildly curling hair from her face. “I know who killed Sparky Carroll and Kane Lewis. His name is Dalco. Stefan Dalco.” He kissed her again, pulled her tight against him. “It wasn’t a dream. He brought me into this elaborate dream setting. He talked to me. He tried to kill me.”

Sherlock studied his face in the dull gray dawn light. She tasted fear and relief, a heady brew. “You stopped him.”

“Yes. This time.” He knew there would be a next time. And what would happen? In the silence of the early morning, he could still hear the faint echo of Dalco’s voice.

The alarm went off, and they both heard Sean running down the hall toward their bedroom, ready to take on the day.





CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT


HOOVER BUILDING


WASHINGTON, D.C.

Friday morning

Sherlock had just reached her desk in the CAU when her cell belted out “Born on the Fourth of July.”

She glanced at the caller ID. Now, this was a surprise. “Hello, Agent Giusti.”

“I heard you and Agent Savich have already been assigned another high-profile case, the stabbing in the Rayburn Building. You’ve got half of us proud of you, the other half jealous.”