The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(79)

Nevaeh went to the deep end, lay down on her stomach, and waited. When Holloway started to tuck and turn, Nevaeh reached out a hand and grabbed a hank of Holloway’s streaming dark hair.

Surprised, Holloway gasped and jerked, brought up flailing arms, but Nevaeh had a brutal grip on her long hair and pulled hard, brought her head out of the water. She stared into Holloway’s shocked eyes. She saw the recognition, then only a brief instant of relief, gone quickly enough.

“Hello, Dr. Holloway. I’ll bet you never expected to see me, did you? Did you know I killed Dr. Fontaine? Both of you conferred and decided I was crazy. You always hated me, didn’t you? Made up stories about me because you were jealous. You tried your best to destroy me, but you didn’t. And now I’m going to kill you.”

Holloway began fighting her in earnest, and she was strong. No choice. Nevaeh quickly brought up her gun and struck her hard on the side of the head. It didn’t knock her out, but it stunned her. Nevaeh leaned close, twisted Holloway’s long hair around her fist. “I waited to kill you last, my dessert, you could say. I thought about killing Franklin, but decided his only crime was his weakness. He was afraid of you. But I’m not.”

Holloway stared up at her with blind eyes. “You think I betrayed you? That I lied? I didn’t, I didn’t. I only did my job. You were crazy then, you’re crazier now. You can’t kill me, you—”

“Goodbye, you worthless bitch.” Nevaeh shoved her head underwater and held her down, difficult because even stunned, the woman was amazingly strong. Finally Holloway slowly weakened, finally she stopped thrashing. Another minute, Nevaeh counted it off in her head, then one more for good measure. She was smiling, singing under her breath, “Ding, dong, the witch is dead.”

She let her go and shoved. She slowly rose, pulled the wet strands of black hair from between her fingers. She was soaked from Holloway’s struggling, even her hair was wet. Who cared? She watched Holloway float away, barely disturbing the surface, then, ever so slowly, she watched her sink to the bottom of the pool.

Nevaeh breathed in the hot, humid night air. She felt exhilarated.

Such a terrible accident. Poor Dr. Holloway had drowned in her beautiful Olympic-size swimming pool.

She sang to the Numen as she climbed back over the gate, “She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.” And the Numen sang back to her, Yes, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.





CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE


T-MINUS 18 HOURS

Nevaeh Patel’s Chateau

Lyon, France

Mike was relieved to see Broussard not only conscious again but also getting back some color. She asked the pink-cheeked French EMT whose name tag read D. LOU?ON, “How’s he doing?”

In heavily accented English, Lou?on said, “Well, I think. The bullet passed through below his collarbone, just here. It is most likely cracked, and I believe his lung to be impacted as well, though it has not fully collapsed. He will need surgery.”

Mike nodded, said to Broussard, “You heard that? You’re going to be okay, only a bit of surgery. Are you up to talking to me, Jean-Pierre?”

“Of course. What can I do, Mike?”

“Tell me how you knew where to find the Flor de la Mar.”

“Three years of intense study, and some natural supposition, I suppose. And luck.”

“So no maps, nothing physical? Gut instinct?”

He managed a weak smile. “I certainly consulted many old maps. And journals. The Flor de la Mar is one of the richest lost ships in history, as you already know. Many people have searched for it. I spent three years studying its possible whereabouts. Why do you want to know this now?”

“Jean-Pierre, did it emit some sort of electrical charge that enabled you to locate it?”

“No, but the Holy Grail did.”

“You know from the moment you touched the stone? How?”

“I just knew. And it did have a charge to it, I suppose one could call it electrical. But it was really something else entirely. I felt like the clock had turned back. I was young again, invincible, strong, ready to take on anything, and I felt a sense of rightness, of peace.” He thought back, remembered how his aching knees no longer ached. “It was as if all my blood rose to the surface in greeting, and the stone vibrated in response. I suppose the very best description is it was like holding a purring cat, so it definitely must have been giving off some sort of audible vibration. You’d have to have an extremely sensitive microphone to pick it up, though. I don’t know if anything exists so powerful that it could pick up the Grail’s heartbeat from afar.”

“You speak of it as if it were alive, in some way.”

“Oh, it is, not in the way you believe, not a human sort of alive, but when I held it, I felt like it was becoming part of me. You know only those who are selfless, those who are worthy, can claim the Grail. I know I am not worthy.” He looked at her closely, drew a breath. “Mike, I told the Grail I wasn’t worthy, I was only the messenger, but still it favored me. But the person to whom the Grail must truly belong is more than worthy, she’s pure, incandescent, a bright light.” His breath hitched.

“Who is this person, Jean-Pierre?”

“It’s my daughter, Emilie. She is dying. She has la sclérose latérale amyotrophique.”