Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(9)
When he finally heard from Sherlock at eleven o’clock that night that she was on her way home—hallelujah—he left Gabriella to watch Sean and left for Reagan National Airport, surprised her flight was only three hours late. At last he saw her walk past the luggage carousels, a bulging black FBI briefcase in one hand, a small black handbag in the other. Even from a distance he could see she was exhausted, running on fumes, but when she saw him, her face lit up. A few people recognized her, but she didn’t acknowledge them, kept her eyes straight ahead, never looking away from his face.
When Savich finally got her into the Porsche, guarded by airport security in a no-parking zone, he revved the sweet engine and pulled away from the curb, relieved to see no reporters. He said nothing until he could exit the airport. He pulled her against him, held her tightly until she reared back in his arms. “I’m okay, you can see I’m okay. Do you know what, Dillon? They gave me a first-class seat on the flight home and three bottles of champagne. The flight attendants wrapped them in napkins so they wouldn’t break and I stuffed them in my briefcase. Do you know some people even asked for my autograph on the plane?”
He laughed, told her she should take a bath in all that champagne.
On the way home he told her about the calls from President Gilbert and Vice President Foley, and perhaps most important, the call from the CEO of Virgin America, offering Sherlock free lifetime first-class tickets to wherever she wanted to go. He wondered if the Pope would invite Romeo Rodriguez to the Vatican for a private reception, Father Joseph to accompany him, once he recovered from his injuries.
He saw she was still wound tight, knew it would be good to get her mind off New York, and so he told her about the bizarre murder at the Rayburn House Office Building earlier that day. The victim was a young man who’d been stabbed through the heart with an Athame—pronounce that a-tha-may, he’d been told—a ritual knife used in witches’ ceremonies, quickly identified by the medical examiner as it had been conveniently left stuck in the victim’s chest, complete with his killer’s fingerprints. As for the man who’d stabbed him, he’d been brought down immediately by several people in the hallway and held for the police. Savich’s boss, Jimmy Maitland, had called Savich because the murderer claimed to have no memory of what had happened and because the ME said he’d never before seen an Athame used as a murder weapon.
“Mr. Maitland said I shouldn’t be surprised he called me. I interviewed the guy, name’s Walter Givens, an auto mechanic from Plackett, Virginia. He’s unmarried, but has a serious girlfriend, likes beer and hanging out with his friends. He was terrified, no faking that, and he has absolutely no memory of killing anyone. He said he finally came to when a half-dozen people slammed him down on the floor. The young man he killed was George Carroll, the owner of a catering company called Eat Well and Prosper in Plackett, Virginia. He said he’d known Sparky—that was George Carroll’s nickname—since they were kids and his family had moved to Plackett. He liked him, sure, he liked him, everybody did, and he was a real good cook, especially for a guy. When I showed him the Athame, he claimed he’d never seen it before in his life. It looked weird to him, with those ugly dragon heads on the handle. He didn’t want to touch it. I’ll show you a photo—it’s called a Dual Dragon Athame, seven-inch blade, carved dragon heads with red ruby eyes.”
“Did this Walter Givens really not remember? You’re sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m positive. Frankly, he isn’t smart enough to fool anyone. Dr. Hicks agreed. He believes someone was strong enough to hypnotize him into committing murder, something Dr. Hicks had a difficult time believing. He wanted to hypnotize Walter, but Walter refused, he was too scared to let someone else fool with his brain.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as scared as Walter Givens was.”
“Can’t say I blame Walter, not after what happened to him.”
“But we have to know how it all came about. Maybe we can talk Walter into the hypnotism tomorrow. Do you know Dr. Hicks patted my hand, told me to figure out how to convince him?”
“Both the victim and the murderer are from the same town? Plackett, Virginia?”
“Yes. Plackett’s a small town about thirty minutes northeast of Richmond, two thousand souls or thereabouts.” He paused for a moment. “Both the murdered man, Sparky Carroll, and Walter Givens, his murderer, from the same town—it’s got to all tie in with this ritual witch’s knife, this Athame.”
“So we have a pissed-off witch on our hands and Sparky Carroll somehow got on his bad side?”
“Sounds like it.”
“I saw an Athame once,” Sherlock said, her voice slurring, she was so tired. “I think it was medieval. It was pretty.”
Pretty? That brutal knife with its ruby dragon eyes staring out had looked alien to him, and malevolent.
Savich pulled the Porsche into the garage, turned in his seat, cupped her beloved face between his hands, leaned forward, and touched his nose to hers. “You scared the crap out of me. I love you.” He kissed her, and took her whispered “I love you, too, and I’m so happy to be here saying that to you,” and when her eyes closed, her mouth still smiling, he finally let go of his fear.
? ? ?
SAVICH LAY ON his back, staring at the dark ceiling, Sherlock’s head on his shoulder. She was boneless, and slightly drunk, with half a bottle of champagne in her bloodstream. Savich wished he’d drunk more champagne, maybe he’d be snoozing, too, but no, his brain was stone-cold sober.