Officer Ridley was still breathing hard, but Savich realized he now had himself under control. At least enough control so he wouldn’t pull his gun and shoot him. Savich said, never raising his voice, never sounding anything but calm and in control, “Tell us what’s happening here, Chief.”
“As I told Agent Sherlock, the guy who lives here, his name’s Martin Thornton. He’s got a wife, Janet, two daughters, ages eight and ten, inside the house, and won’t let them come out. We got a call from a neighbor about an hour and a half ago. They’d heard a gunshot and some screams. We think the husband went nuts. Why, we don’t know. Joe Gaines, the one with the bullhorn, is from the Hostage Rescue Team. He’s trying to get the guy to talk to him again, establish a dialogue. So far the guy hasn’t talked much, except to yell out once that his name wasn’t Martin Thornton, it was Austin Douglas Barrister. That’s when we ran the name and found the alert to call you, Agent Sherlock.” He paused a moment, eyeing Savich. “Okay, you said this is personal too. I’ve told you the facts as I know them, now it’s your turn to fill me in.”
Savich said, “We need him as a possible witness in a murder investigation, and I know a great deal about his life. Give me a vest. I’ve got to be the one to speak to him. I may be the only one who can get through to him. His mother is the reason he cracked, and I’m the only one who knows her. She’s extraordinarily important to him. You’re going to have to trust me on this. It’s the best chance for his wife and daughters. Austin too.”
Chief Gerber had listened intently, listened to every inflection, then made a decision. “Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be inclined to let a hot dog who drives up in a red Porsche anywhere close to that house.” He fell silent. Then he slowly nodded. “Guess these circumstances aren’t all that normal though. Joe, give Agent Savich the bullhorn, he’ll need it. Duncan, get Agent Savich a Kevlar vest. Keep your traps shut, I’ll take responsibility.” He studied Savich’s face. “You’re really sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be about anything.”
“I recognize you now. You’re the FBI guy heading the murder case at the Supreme Court, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Officer Duncan handed Savich a vest. Savich stripped off his leather jacket, peeled off his leather gloves, and tossed them to Sherlock. He pulled on the vest over his shirt. When he put on his leather jacket, he zipped it over his belt holster. He said low to Sherlock, taking her hands in his, “Another day in Paradise, right, sweetheart? Pray a little.”
She wanted to wrap her arms around him and not let him go. She didn’t want him to step anywhere near that harmless-looking house with a gun-wielding maniac inside. She said, “I will pray, you can count on that.” Her mouth was dry with fear. She swallowed, but her voice still came out scratchy and hoarse. “Take care, Dillon.” She stepped back. She felt someone against her back, felt a man’s hand on her arm. It was Ben, with Callie beside him.
Savich took the bullhorn from Joe Gaines, and began his trek to the driveway. A large oak tree stood tall just off center in the front yard. He saw a basketball hoop set up over the double garage doors. The net was ripped, showing lots of use. There were a couple of girls’ bikes leaning against the closed left garage door. He walked past dormant rosebushes lining the front of the house. The curtains were drawn over the single large front picture window. He was aware of the low murmur of cop voices behind him, and farther away, the worried and excited conversation of the neighbors. He wondered if there would be another shot and he’d be dead before he hit the ground.
He stopped just before he stepped off the driveway onto the sidewalk that led to the narrow front porch. He raised the bullhorn. “Martin, Austin—my name is Dillon Savich. I’m an FBI agent. I know your mother. It’s because of her that I’m here. She’s really worried about you. If you talk to me I can tell you all about it.”
Dead silence.
“Your mother, Samantha Barrister, is worried about you, Austin. Let me come in and tell you what she said to me.”
Savich didn’t move, just held the bullhorn loosely at his side.
There was movement inside the house, then a woman’s low voice. The wife was alive, thank God.
Savich stood still as a stone, the cold seeping through his boots and gloves. He finally saw the front door crack open, saw a flicker of movement, and knew it was Martin Thornton—Austin Douglas Barrister—standing close behind the partially open doorway, out of the line of fire from the police at the curb.
He didn’t say another word, just waited.
“You’re a liar,” Austin said. “My mom’s been dead for thirty years. You hear me? Someone killed her! So who the hell are you? Why are you lying to me like this?”
The voice was low and scared, and there was something else, a loss of control, close to the surface. But he’d asked a question, and that was positive.
“I’m not lying, Austin,” Savich said, and took another step up the short sidewalk.
“My name’s Martin. Austin, that’s someone else. Don’t you move!”
“All right, I won’t. But I’m not lying to you.”
“Sure you are. Who told you about my mother?”
“Let me come closer and I’ll tell you all about it.”
A moment of silence, then, “All right, you can come up on the porch, but no closer.”
Savich walked up the sidewalk, slow and easy, stepped up onto the porch and waited.
“Talk.”
“I saw your mother a week ago Friday night, near Blessed Creek. I was driving to the cabin where my family and I were staying for the weekend when I had a blowout. I’d just finished changing the tire when a hysterical young woman ran out in front of my car, claiming someone was trying to kill her, and I had to take her home, right away. I couldn’t get much else out of her. I followed her directions, and ended up at a huge house on top of a knoll. That was your old home, Aus—Martin. I had her sit on the sofa in the living room as I searched the house, but I didn’t find anyone. When I went back to where I’d left your mom in the living room, she was gone.”
Martin Thornton yelled, “She’s dead, do you hear me? Dead for thirty years. You made this up, mister. Did my father send you? No, there’s no way he could have found me.”
Savich continued, keeping his voice calm. “I dreamed about Samantha the very next night after I was called back to Washington on an emergency. And again this past week. She mentioned you, her son, her precious boy. Since we couldn’t locate you, we put out an alert, and Chief Gerber called us when you shouted out your real name just a little while ago. I’m not lying, Martin. Why would I?”
Savich knew that the cops couldn’t hear either of them.
Martin Thornton’s voice was hesitant. “I didn’t mean to call out that other name, it just came out of my mouth. What are you saying? There’s no such thing as ghosts. My mom couldn’t come back—how could she?”
“I don’t know, but she did come to me, then she was in my dreams. Martin, I’m here to help you, but I can’t until I know what’s changed in your life, what’s happened to you to make you do this. Let me come inside. I’m not about to hurt you or your family. I’m here for you, but mainly I’m here for your mother, Samantha, and not as an FBI agent.”
The door eased open and a man appeared in profile. Then he turned to face him. Savich knew Austin Douglas Barrister was only a couple of years older than he, about thirty-seven, but he appeared older. He had thinning black hair, a very pale face, and his mother’s incredibly beautiful eyes. But his pupils were dilated, huge and black with fear, just as hers had been. He was thin, a bit stoop-shouldered, and wore dark brown corduroy trousers, sneakers, and a white shirt beneath a dark brown V-neck sweater. He heard his wife Janet say, “Let him in, Martin. I believe him. It sounds too crazy not to be true. Come, we’ll work this out. Let him in.”
Savich saw that Martin was holding a shotgun at his side, a weapon that could blow a hole through a man, Kevlar vest or not.
> Martin slowly nodded. He looked out toward all the cops, shrank back a bit. “All right, you can come in, but I still think you’re nuts.” Then he laughed. “I said you’re nuts? That makes both of us nuts. What did you say your name is?”
“Dillon Savich.”
“Did the cops give you a gun?”
“I already told you I’m an FBI agent. Of course I have a gun. It’s in the holster at my belt. Would you like me to drop it out here?”
Martin Thornton stared at him, the shotgun held tight in his right hand. Savich was close enough to see that it was an SKB model 785, a beautiful weapon, finely tooled with an automatic ejector, and with a silver nitrite finish. It was expensive, and it was deadly.
Martin Thornton said slowly, “No, leave it holstered. Come on in.”
“Would you like to send Janet and the girls out?”
Suddenly a woman was standing at Martin’s right shoulder. “No, I don’t want to leave Martin. I’m fine right here. The girls are locked in a bedroom. They’re all right too.” She drew a deep breath. “This has happened twice before. We got through it. Come in, Agent Savich.”
“Yeah, all right, come in,” Martin said and stepped back, careful not to show himself fully in the doorway. Savich didn’t blame him for that. Savich looked back to nod toward Chief Gerber before he stepped through the front door and waved his hand.
He stepped inside the house. It was dim and shadowy. He could barely see the woman standing beside Martin. He said, “Can we turn on some lights?”
Martin shut and locked the front door, then flicked on the light switch.
Savich looked into a good-sized living room, a long, narrow space with two thick carpets on the hardwood floor, comfortable furniture, a lot of chintz. Feminine, but inviting. It looked like a home, a happy contented home. This had happened twice before? And Janet had hung in there? That said something about her, about them. She was nearly as tall as her husband, plump, big-breasted, with long, naturally curly dark brown hair.
Savich saw the gaping hole in the living room wall where Martin had fired a blast at close range. So that’s what the neighbors had heard, why they’d called the police.
Savich sincerely hoped Martin Thornton didn’t lose it like that again, and put the same size hole through him. But suddenly, he wasn’t sure. Martin’s eyes had gone hot and dark.
CHAPTER
29
SAVICH DIDN’T MOVE. He nearly stopped breathing. He wondered in that instant what that SKB shotgun fired at this close range would do to his chest. Probably shred both the vest and him, and he’d be dead so fast he wouldn’t even realize it. He smiled at Martin Thornton. “This hole in the wall. Do you know what it made me think about?”
Martin blinked, his eyes slowly focused. He looked over at the wall. “What?”
“I was thinking that this was the very first time I’ve seen what a shotgun blast could do to a wall, and I was wondering what it would do to a human body. I’m wearing a Kevlar vest, but even so, I think it would splatter me from here into the next block. It would make an awful mess.”
Martin stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Slowly, he shook his head. “No, I don’t want to think what it would do to you.”
“I hope you never have to see it. Now, I want you to listen to me carefully, Martin. Are you hearing me?”
Savich waited. Slowly, Martin nodded. Savich saw his fingers ease off the trigger, saw he was holding the shotgun more loosely now. Good, he had his attention.
“You’ve already done a very violent thing in firing that shotgun, but no one was hurt. Now concentrate, focus your mind. I want you to look inside yourself, Martin. Look at the powerful feelings that made you do that. Examine them, ruminate on each one of them. Look at them like you would something you want to eat, something you’re not really sure of, but you’re hungry, you have this compulsion to eat everything in front of you. I want you to ask yourself where those feelings are coming from.”
Martin looked bewildered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to look at them. I want them to go away and stay away, but they won’t. They get all heaped up in my head, and I can’t see clearly, can’t separate them out. They’re there all of a sudden and make me crazy, they just—happen, like this morning, everything just popped. I knew it was happening, but I couldn’t stop it, just couldn’t.”
“You’re a strong person, Martin. You’ve survived what many men would never survive, so I know you can deal with this, too. I’m not a physician to give you drugs or tell you to meditate to stop the feelings from overwhelming you.
“What I know is this—you and I are standing right here, you’ve got a shotgun in your hand, the police are outside, and your family is frightened. This is real, Martin, and it could turn tragic. You have to deal with this right now. Without violence, without any more loss of control. I want you to focus your mind on the most real thing in the world to you—your wife, Janet, who’s scared even though she’s hiding it really well. You don’t want her to be frightened any more, do you?”
“I—I, no, I don’t. I hate it when this happens because I can see she’s afraid, afraid of me. And she’s afraid even more for the girls. Oh God, I love Janet.”
“I can see why.”
Martin shook his head, as if coming out of a fog. His voice was shaking as he said, “I’m sorry. I understand. I think I’m feeling better now. Those feelings seem to be backing off, I’m more in control again. Really, I’m not just saying that. Please, Agent Savich, sit down.”
Martin paused, his hand loosening even more on the beautiful black walnut stock of the shotgun. He said, his voice curiously childlike, wistful, “I’ve never met an FBI agent before.” He turned to his wife, and his voice was easier now, less frightened. “Janet, did you hear what he said?”
“Yes, and it makes a lot of sense to me, Martin. You didn’t want to see a doctor before, but now that’s what we must do.” She glanced at Savich, and quickly again at the shotgun.
“Janet, did you hear what he said to me about my mother?”
She nodded. “Yes. He said your dead mother came to him, then she came to him again in his dreams. She spoke of you, her precious boy. She wants him to help you.” She touched her husband’s shoulder. “Martin, please put down that shotgun. I never want to see it again, ever. I want to throw it in the river.”
He nodded and grinned at her, actually grinned. “It’s going to cost us a fortune to repair the wall.”
“Forget about the wall. Agent Savich is going to help us, Martin.” She held out her hand. “Give me that thing. I know it’s beautiful. I know you paid a bundle for it, but it frightens me. It destroys. I’m going to unload it and lay it beside the front door. Okay?”
“Here,” was all he said, and handed her the shotgun. She paused a second, because she really didn’t want to touch it, but she took it and did exactly what she’d said she would. She walked to the front door, unloaded the shotgun, and laid it on the floor.
Us, Savich thought, Janet had said us, not just her husband. And that may have been the right thing to say. When she returned, he said, “Please, both of you, call me Dillon.” Odd how so few people called him by his first name, but somehow, in this circumstance, he knew it was right. He smiled at both of them.
“Thank you, Dillon,” Janet said. “Sit down, Martin. I’m going to go talk to the girls. They’re scared and I want them to know everything is all right. I’ll be right back.”
Martin looked undecided, but for only a moment. “All right. I’m sorry, Janet, I didn’t mean to—the girls, God, I scared them to death. I’m so sorry.”
She hugged him, kissed his cheek. “It will be all right. I’ll speak to the girls, make them understand, then I’ll be back. I’m going to leave them in the bedroom, it’ll make them feel safer, I think. Now, would you like some coffee, Dillon?”
He smiled at her. “Tea would be wonderful.”
“A real live tea drinker. Goodness, we’re coffee addicts in this house. I
’ll be right back. You talk to him, Martin. You talk to him, tell him everything, and then listen.” She nodded, patted her husband’s shoulder, and lightly shoved him down into a big easy chair with a remote control pocket holder on the side, obviously his chair.
Martin eased down into the chair like it was an old friend and stretched out his legs in front of him. As if by habit, he reached into the chair’s side pocket, felt the remote control, brought his hand back up. He didn’t face Savich yet, just looked down at the remote for several moments. Then he splayed his palms on his legs, as if trying to relax. He said, still without looking up, “I lost it. I just lost it. Like Janet said, it’s happened a couple of other times, but I never had a gun before.” He shuddered, drew a deep breath, and at last met Savich’s eyes. “I went out last week to a gun show in Baltimore, and I bought the SKB and a big box of shells.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know really. I felt I had to. Something was pushing me, like it had me by the throat. I felt like something bad was coming.”
“Was it a memory, or dream, what?”
“A dream where everything is black, and I’m hiding, where, I don’t know, but I do know to my soul I have to stay hidden. I know something horrible is happening, but I can’t move.”
“Do you think it had something to do with your mother’s murder?”
Martin looked toward the hole in the living room wall. “Everything was black. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t even tell where I was. I didn’t even know my mother was murdered until I was eighteen.”
“You didn’t know or you didn’t remember?”
“I don’t really know which. All I knew was that she wasn’t there anymore. Sheriff Harms—I remember him really well—he was younger then than I am now—I saw him in my dream when I was eighteen. I actually saw my hand in his. Mine was so small and his was like a giant’s, I do remember that, and he was leading me downstairs and my father and a whole lot of people were there, looking very serious and sad. He handed me over to my father. Then I don’t remember anything, except that we were living in Boston, though I don’t remember moving there, or how or why. Mom was gone, and that was really hard, but my father said it wasn’t our fault she died, that he expected me to be a good, strong, young man.