Nemesis (13 page)

A man stood there, his hands crossed over his chest. He was swathed in a hooded black robe with long, billowing sleeves. The robe seemed to twist and swirl around his dark boots, as if stirred by an unseen wind. A thin gold cord was tied around his waist, the ends dangling nearly to his knees. His face was long and thin, his head covered by a hood. From what Savich could see of his face, he was pale, with long black hair that spilled forward from his hood onto his shoulders. He looked like an ancient scholar, or perhaps a monk from an old religious order who might have worked in a dark tower like this. He’d seen pictures of witches in robes like that, dancing in their ceremonies, their faces exalted while they chanted to the heavens, carving the air with sharp-bladed Athames.

“You are not frightened,” he said in a deep voice. “I admit that surprises me. I brought you here to instruct you about what you’re going to do for me.”

His voice was resonant yet strangely hollow, like an old recording played too many times. He sounded faintly European. Savich said, “You mean the kind of instruction you gave Walter Givens and Brakey Alcott, to stab their friends?”

“You’re quite intuitive, I see. Perhaps that is why you are not as afraid of me as you should be. You realized quite quickly my beautiful forest wasn’t a dream, that I had eased into your mind, created this splendid setting to bring you into.”

“I should be afraid?”

“You will do as I say, as they did, whether you are afraid or not. Before we are done here, you will revere me, worship me. And you will remember nothing.”

Savich waved his hand around him. “I don’t see much to be afraid of, actually. Look around you. You couldn’t manage to get the lighting right, so many shadows, so many blurred corners in your tower. And you couldn’t provide heat, either, could you?

“Worship you? If you don’t mind, now I’m too cold.”

The hooded figure didn’t move, stood with his black cloak swirling about his ankles. If Savich wasn’t mistaken, he looked surprised at the mockery. What would he do? Savich hated to admit it to himself, but he was afraid. He had no idea what would happen if he were killed in his mind. Would his body die as well?

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

S
herlock 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.”

“We try our best,” Sherlock said. She wasn’t about to elaborate. Her mind had been turning in circles since Savich had told her what had happened to him. “What can I do for you, Agent Giusti?”

When Giusti finally spoke, the words sounded like she was having to pry them out of her mouth with pliers. “The terrorist at JFK—Nasim Conklin—as you know. He won’t talk with us, refuses to speak with anyone but you. So I need you to come up to New York immediately.”

“I’ve seen you in action, Agent Giusti. You’ll get Conklin to beg to talk to you, no doubt in my mind.”

“You’d think, right?” Again, a pause. “Look, I know you’re busy with your current case, but I’m ready to throw in the towel. My boss is, too. We have to get Nasim to talk, Agent Sherlock, and it looks like you’re it.”

Sherlock didn’t want to leave Dillon, not after last night. “Here’s the thing—” she began, but Giusti rolled right over her.

“Actually, it’s not up to you, Agent Sherlock. There’s another consideration in calling you up here. We’re going to take you out of the public eye for a few days. The terrorists behind Conklin know he spoke to you at JKF, and it’s not a big leap to assume they’d be happy to see both of you dead, as payback for sending their operation into the crapper. Both of you might be targets, Nasim because he failed. You know as well as I do it would be a public relations coup for the terrorists if they succeeded in killing you in particular, and we’re not going to let that happen. So please be careful until we have you safely here with us in New York. As for Nasim, we’ve got him hidden away as safe as a baby.

“My boss, SAC Zachery, has spoken with Mr. Maitland and he’s given his thumbs-up. He’s arranged for one of the FBI Bell helicopters out of Quantico to bring you up to New York. We’ll meet you at the East Thirty-fourth Street Heliport. Bring clothes for, say, three days.”

Well, that’s that,
Sherlock thought, as she stared at her cell. She had to hand it to Giusti, she’d gone about it the right way, gone right up the ladder on both ends, leaving her no choice. She thought of Dillon, of this mad psychopath on his hands and in his head, and knew he wouldn’t be happy about it, either, a vast understatement.

“Very well. I’ll be at Quantico in two hours,” Sherlock said to the cell phone, since Giusti had already hung up.

Friday, late morning

S
pecial Agent Callum McLain was standing next to the helicopter at Quantico, chatting with their pilot, J. J. Markie, a fireball who told stories about how he’d flown a helicopter into the heart of hell in Afghanistan, mixed it up with the devil, and flown back out whistling, when Sherlock drove onto the tarmac in her trusty Volvo. Sherlock had met Callum—Cal—a couple times, and liked him. He was smart, funny, and no-nonsense when he was focused. He was a big guy in his early thirties, buff and well dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, his Glock doubtless clipped to his belt. She saw he was wearing black boots, not wing tips. She was glad Dillon had picked him to accompany her. She hadn’t argued because she knew it was important to him, to do all he could do to keep her safe.

“Agent Sherlock? Good to see you again.” She and Cal shook hands and he took her overnight bag. “Been about four months, since that barbecue the director gave at his house for a bunch of agents.”

Sherlock smiled up at him. “I remember the special dishes he made for the vegetarians, especially that grilled corn on the cob, one of Dillon’s favorites.”

“Worked out. I got his share of barbecue ribs. You and Savich had your little boy with you—Sean, right? Do you know, I’d like to have one like him someday?”

Markie poked him on the shoulder. “To pull that off, you’ve got to find an unsuspecting woman first, McLain. Congratulations, Sherlock, on bringing down that terrorist at JFK, amazing what you did. My daughter Ruth says she wants to be an FBI agent like you when she grows up. I asked her if she was going to curl her hair and dye it red to match yours. Not a problem, she told me, she’d already picked out the exact shade. She wants to start karate tomorrow.”

“How old is your daughter, J.J.?”

“The little pistol turned six last week.” He looked down at his watch. “You guys ready to go? I’d like to get this bird in the air. We don’t want to keep New York twiddling their thumbs.”

When they were buckled in the back seats, their headphones clear, Markie gave them the safety rundown. Then, “A little under an hour to the helipad on Thirty-fourth Street. We’ve got a nice wind on our tail pushing us north.”