“I don’t see what we have to talk about unless you’ve found out something,” Mr. Givens said. “Walter still doesn’t remember what happened with Sparky Carroll until that crowd of people tackled him in the hallway, told him he’d stabbed Sparky. We want to bring in doctors to have him tested, prove he had a seizure of some kind and was not responsible for Sparky’s death. Can you help us with that?”
Twenty-three-year-old Walter Givens looked pale after only two days behind bars. Worse, he looked leached of life, from the inside out. He was taking it hard. And why not? Two days ago, he’d killed his own friend, lost the thread of his life, and for all he knew, his own sanity.
Savich said, “We will conduct medical and psychiatric tests, and you will be allowed to arrange for your own. Your own attorney will arrange it. He won’t need my help. I want you all to know I also think Walter wasn’t responsible for Sparky Carroll’s death. I’m going to try to prove that.”
Mrs. Givens leaned forward toward Savich. “I knew it, I knew Walter couldn’t have done this willingly. Do you know what happened to Walter to make him do this?”
“I hope to find out,” Savich said, “and I hope you all can help me by answering some of my questions. I know you’re worried—I would be as well—but I will need all of you to stay calm. Do not agree to any interviews, don’t talk about this to anyone—that includes you, Lisa Ann. The tabloids and headline news sites would be happy to jump all over Walter’s story, and that wouldn’t help any of us. I would guess Walter’s attorney already counseled all of you not to speak to the media. Have you?”
“I told that pack of hounds what they could do with their microphones,” Givens Senior snapped out. “Those vultures were even waiting outside when Lisa Ann was let out of her high school today, weren’t they, sweetie?”
Lisa Ann was a very pretty girl with long, glossy brown hair that framed a heart-shaped face. She nodded. “It was horrible. This one overweight guy with a microphone in his hand yelled at me, and when I started running, he chased me, but not for long. He was bent over and heaving, he was so out of shape.” She paused, licked some pale lipstick off her lips. “But I actually wanted to talk to them, tell them Walter wouldn’t hurt anybody. He never even hit me once, even when I stole his shorts and hung them up in the girls’ locker room at school. All he did was turn red in the face and tromp outside to Daddy’s old Jeep and pop the hood.”
“I changed the plugs,” Walter said.
Mrs. Givens chuckled, shook her head. She had a glossy brown ponytail, the same color as her daughter’s. “I fix hair in my home, Agent Savich, and one of my clients’ daughters saw her do it. That’s how Walter found out.” She stopped cold, paled, then shook her head, as if disbelieving what she’d said.
Savich kept his voice calm, even. “I need you to tell me if any of you have harmed or angered or injured anyone in any way, anyone who might have a reason to strike out at you or your family.” He saw they were confused, knew they believed Walter had suffered some sort of fit. “Indulge me on this,” he said. “Are you in conflict with anyone, Walter? Mr. Givens?” He nodded toward Mrs. Givens and Lisa Ann.
Lisa Ann opened her mouth, then shook her head.
Savich leaned toward her. “What, Lisa Ann?”
“It just popped into my head, but it’s silly. Tanny Alcott said she hated me. She hit me with a football once on purpose because I told on her.”
“Whatever was that about?” her mother asked her. “Goodness, Tanny’s only ten years old.”
Savich said, “What did she do?”
“One day when I was visiting the grade school, I was in the restroom and there was Tanny, making fun of another little girl. She’d had leukemia and her hair was just starting to grow back because of her chemotherapy. Tanny said she wouldn’t stop it when I asked her to and I couldn’t make her, so I told their teacher, Mrs. Abrams. I called her a mean little witch. She gave me this freak-weird look and said she’d get me for that. That’s when she said she hated me.”
“Why did you call her a witch?” Savich asked.
“Everyone in Plackett knows the Alcotts are witches. Well, Mrs. Alcott says she’s a Wiccan, so I guess she’s not a bad witch.”
Savich nodded, turned to Walter. “Has anything like that happened between you and any of the Alcotts, Walter?”
Walter shook his head, but Mr. Givens said, “Wait, Walter, remember when you were at The Gulf and got into a fight with Liggert Alcott?”
“Yeah, I remember. What happened was I saw him hit his kid, Teddy, outside the feed store last month and I told him to stop it. A week later we got into it at The Gulf. He was drunk, so Deputy Lewis hauled him off to spend the night in jail. He let me go because everyone backed me up, said Liggert was the one who started it.”
“Walter,” Savich said, “did Sparky Carroll ever harm the Alcotts in any way you know of?”
Walter thought, shook his head. “I’m sorry. Agent Savich, I can’t think of a thing. He and Brakey and I were friends all through school. Sparky and I were in and out of the Alcott house when we were kids. There was never any trouble. We always thought the Alcotts calling themselves Wiccans was funny. Sparky and I drifted away from Brakey when we got older, you know how that goes. We had less in common.”
Mrs. Givens said, “There’s Liggert. He’s older and a bully. He hits his wife, too, if what I’ve heard from my ladies is true.”
Walter said, almost in a whisper, “Sparky was one of my best friends, ever since we were kids. How could I have killed him, Agent Savich? And why?”
It was almost the same question Brakey had asked him.
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Friday evening
The front door at the Alcotts’ flew open. “Brakey!”
Griffin recognized Deliah Alcott easily from Savich’s description. She picked up her gauzy skirt and ran to her son, hugging him close. She ran her fingers through his hair, held his face between her hands, and asked him, “Are you all right, Brakey? Did you remember what happened? Why are you smiling? Did they prove you didn’t kill Deputy Lewis?”
Brakey put his hands on his mother’s arms, gently pushing her back. “I didn’t remember anything, but it’s okay, really. It turns out they can’t hypnotize me, but they let me come home anyway. Agent Hammersmith brought me, and look”—he bent down and pulled up the leg of his jeans—“I’ve got to wear this ankle bracelet until they find out who killed Deputy Lewis. That’s it. Otherwise I’m free to do as I please, Agent Savich told me.”
Deliah Abbott stared from that ankle bracelet to Griffin. She took Brakey’s hand. “Don’t show that bracelet off to anyone else, okay, Brakey? We don’t want people talking any more than they already are.”
Deliah Alcott turned fierce eyes to Griffin. “You’re Agent Hammersmith?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Griffin handed her his creds. “And you’re Brakey’s mom, Mrs. Alcott.”
“Yes.” She walked right up to him, got in his face. “Why is he wearing an ankle bracelet? Do you think he’s going to run off?”
“We need to know where he goes, Mrs. Alcott, that’s all. He’s having trouble remembering, and there’s a killer out there. It’s for his protection, too.”
“Bring him in, Morgana. I want to see the boy who’s brought Brakey home, too,” came a scratchy old voice from behind Mrs. Alcott.
Deliah gave Griffin a long look, then ushered him past the elaborate wooden front door with the pentacle hanging on it, over a wide threshold that would easily allow a wheelchair through it, and into the large entry hall that smelled faintly of sweet incense.
Griffin spotted the old lady Savich had told him about. Ms. Louisa, but not Louisa May. What an old tartar was his first thought. He studied her dark hooded eyes and wondered briefly if her dead son had had eyes, like hers. He introduced himself, shook her veiny arthritic hand.
“I thought the other one was a pretty boy, but you’re really a looker, aren’t you? What do you think, Morgana?”
Deliah Alcott shrugged impatiently, opened her mouth, but was interrupted by a man Griffin took to be Jonah wandering into the entry hall. He stilled. “You’re back, Brakey. That’s good they let you out. And who are you?” He stared hard at Griffin.
Griffin introduced himself again, showed his creds. Mrs. Alcott introduced her second son. While Jonah Alcott looked at them, the old lady wheeled herself into the middle of the living room, did a neat K-turn, turned off the motor of her wheelchair, and waved to them. “Well, come on in and tell us what all you smart folk think about the poor deputy’s murder. It took you long enough to figure out some crook set up my poor Brakey.”
Griffin followed Brakey and his mother into the large living room, redolent with the same sweet incense. Deliah Alcott didn’t ask him to sit down. She didn’t sit, either. She drew a deep breath. “I’ve been frantic.” She gave Brakey a quick look, as if to reassure herself he was here and he was safe. “I sent you all the positive energy that was in me today, Brakey, to get you home.” She turned back to Griffin. “So what is it you’ve got to tell me? What will happen to my son now?”
“Agent Hammersmith doesn’t agree with me, Mom,” Brakey said, “but I’m thinking how both Walter and I were drugged, and someone forced us to”—he couldn’t get it out—“do what we did.”
“But they don’t know you killed Deputy Lewis, Brakey. They just don’t have anyone else,” Deliah said. “There’s no proof, is there? So don’t give in to them. Why would you even say you did something like that?”
“Because I can’t remember and it was my truck and I don’t see how anyone else could have gotten into it.”
“Got you there, Morgana,” Ms. Louisa said, and pulled her knitting needles out of the pile of bright green and gold wool on her lap. “You’d better be careful about what you say before you get Brakey into even more trouble.”
Finesse it, Savich had told Griffin, and so he did the best he could. “Actually, Mrs. Alcott, Agent Savich and I believe someone managed to manipulate Brakey into murdering Deputy Lewis. It is this person we’re looking for now, and we’d like your help.”
He looked from Mrs. Alcott to the old lady to Jonah, the middle brother, who was now slouched against the fireplace, holding a deck of cards in his hand. Jonah said, “I thought you said Brakey couldn’t be hypnotized. If that’s the truth, then how could someone manage to talk him into killing Deputy Lewis? Is there any drug that can do that? Make you kill another person like that?”
How to finesse that? Griffin fell back on, “Sorry, Mr. Alcott, I really don’t know the details. That’s part of our investigation,” to which Jonah Alcott snorted and started shuffling the deck of cards with one hand. He was quite good.
Mrs. Alcott was still standing facing him, her arms over her chest. Brakey had sprawled on an oversized chintz sofa. Ms. Louisa was knitting something he couldn’t recognize, only the clicking sound her needles made filling the silence.
He said, “Do any of you know of anything Deputy Lewis and Sparky Carroll have in common that could have got them both killed?”
The Alcotts looked at him blankly. Deliah said, “Even if there was, even if you find something like that, I’m sure Brakey had nothing to do with it. You mentioned some other person. Who?”
Griffin pulled out his cell and showed her the FBI sketch of the man Savich had described to him, Stefan Dalco.
She froze. Gotcha, Griffin thought. He knew in his gut she’d seen him before. “You know this man, Mrs. Alcott?”
“No—I was surprised at how bizarre he looks, how foreign.”
Griffin showed the photo to Jonah and Ms. Louisa. They both shook their heads. “Would you show me the Athames you have in the house?”
“Jonah and I each have our own, but we don’t have anything like a collection, Agent Hammersmith.”
Brakey said, “We gave away Dad’s collection after he died, right, Mom?”
“Who did you give the collection to, Mrs. Alcott?”
“I gave it to Millie Stacy.” She paused. “That’s Tammy Carroll’s mother.” Mrs. Alcott looked blindly at him. “She’s Sparky Carroll’s mother-in-law.”
COLBY COMMUNITY HOSPITAL
Friday night
Kelly Giusti was so physically tired she wanted to slide down the wall and onto the ancient Berber carpet in the waiting room. But she knew she wouldn’t relax or sleep because she couldn’t stop seeing Nasim Conklin’s dead face. He’d begun as a mad terrorist in her mind and slowly morphed into a man whose life she realized had been taken over and flung away as if it meant nothing. He’d been a brave man, an innocent man they’d wanted out of the way. And he’d died not knowing why it had happened to him.
It was chilling. It didn’t surprise her, but it did sadden her unutterably. In saner moments, she wondered if she was letting herself get too hardened at the advanced age of thirty-one. She’d seen so many evil human beings in her years in counterterrorism. What she needed now was some good news, like finding Hosni Rahal, the brother of one of the men who’d taken Nasim, or identifying the shooter, who’d been in surgery all this time. He’d carried no ID on him, not a surprise to any of them. They were running his fingerprints and photograph through the system, and she would have to wait. She looked over at Cal speaking quietly to Sherlock, probably consoling her about Nasim. From across the room Kelly could see the dried tears on Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock’s cell blasted out Brewer King’s “It’s a Cold Day in Hell,” and she jerked up.
Kelly saw her look at the caller ID and draw a deep breath. She walked out of the room.
Sherlock saw the nurses’ station up ahead and turned in the opposite direction. She closed her eyes. No way was she going to scare Dillon with the news that a bullet had barely missed splatting her head all over a bathroom. She knew the trick was to lie clean, with no hesitation. It was worth a try. She drew a deep breath, said without preamble, “Dillon, Nasim’s dead. A sniper got him, at the safe house. Top secret for now, okay?”
A pause, then, “Yes, certainly. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Cal got a bullet in the arm; he was too close to Nasim when the bullets came flying through the bathroom window. He’s okay, Dillon. I bandaged him up. The doctor in the ER said he was good to go with Steri-Strips and a tetanus shot.”
There was a long moment of silence. He didn’t believe her?
Then, “Talk to me. Did Nasim tell you everything he knew? Don’t leave anything out, Sherlock.”
“Nasim gave me a couple names, including someone with a moniker, the Strategist. He confirmed contacts with the imam Ali Hädi ibn Mirza in London, but nothing definite yet that connects the imam to the attempted blowing up of Saint Pat’s.” She told him exactly what Nasim said, and exactly what happened, except that she’d almost died. Dillon was quiet when she finished. “You did well. It’s a good start. I’m sorry about Conklin. So how did they find the safe house?”
She could hear his brain working, sifting through what she’d told him, and she kept going, fast. She told him about the GPS she believed the ME would find in his body. She told him about the shooter who was in surgery. “Kelly—Agent Giusti—is waiting on a call identifying him.”
“You said Cal was shot because he was standing too close to Nasim. So where were you?”
Distraction time. “Close by, but really, I’m fine. Tell me, Dillon, what happened with Brakey Alcott and Dr. Hicks?”
The distraction worked. “It was as I thought, Dalco front and center. As you can imagine, Brakey Alcott is a mess. We’ve put a monitor on his ankle and Griffin took him home. He’s going to speak to the family, see what he can learn. It’s about all we can do, short of protective custody. I’m going to have to lay the facts out to our lawyers soon, see what they say. Af
ter they stop rolling their eyes.
“It sounds like they don’t need you anymore. When are you coming home?”
Sherlock realized she was crying. She didn’t make a sound, wiped the tears off her cheeks. “Oh, Dillon, the whole deal at JFK—Nasim was supposed to sacrifice himself for his family and he was fully prepared to. He was brave, Dillon, he let himself be killed. I promised him I’d find his family. I have to do my best to keep that promise. We’ve got a lead, the name of a man who may be able to lead us to the family. And Kelly wants me here, wants both Cal and me involved.”
Savich tried to keep his voice emotionless, but he didn’t manage it. “Agent Giusti shouldn’t be using you. She knows very well the terrorists would be happy to see you as dead as Nasim. It wouldn’t be simple revenge for wrecking their plan at JFK, but a lot more than that. Killing you now would be a powerful message that they can eliminate anybody they choose, even you.”
She felt a slick of fear in her belly, tried to quash it, to keep it from making its way into her voice. What would he say if she told him everything? “They may want that, but Cal and I won’t let it happen. I don’t have a GPS embedded under my skin. They won’t get close. All I want now is to find Nasim’s family alive. Give Sean a big kiss for me, okay?”
She knew he didn’t like it, knew he wanted to argue. She wouldn’t like it either if he were the one sitting in the hospital in Colby, Long Island. After a long silence, he said, “Yes, you know I will.”
Her good-bye came flying out of her mouth. “You be careful, too, Dillon. Promise me you’ll be careful. I love you.”
“I love you more.” A pause, then, “Don’t ever forget, you’re my mate. Keep Cal upright, okay? Otherwise he won’t be any use to you.”
He’d called her his mate. His mate. She liked the sound of that. She wondered if he’d fly up here, but she knew he couldn’t, not yet. She had to remember to threaten Cal with mayhem if he dared mention that bullet.