Eleventh Hour by Catherine Coulter
Nick dropped the steak knife. She put her face in her hands and started crying, low, ugly sobs.
Dwight laughed. He’d taken off his leather jacket. He was wearing a black T-shirt, khaki pants held up with a silver belt with a big turquoise buckle, and sneakers. He laughed, watching her fall apart. “I knew once you realized that you weren’t long for this earth, you’d break. I expect more from an FBI agent. I bet she won’t shed a tear.
“Pull yourself together, Nicola. I’m not going to kill you right away. Think of all the trouble you’ve caused me and poor Albia. I’ve got to punish you for that. I promised Albia I would. I’m going to let the two of you wonder about the end I’ve got planned for you.”
“What plans?” Sherlock asked.
“You’ll see,” he said. “I want you to go up the stairs first, Agent.”
Sherlock nodded to Nick, turned, and began climbing those nine wooden steps up to the deck.
Nick just nodded, and sobbed some more. She felt his hand pushing against her back, and trailed after Sherlock. Once on deck, she kept her head down, kept the choking sobs coming from her mouth. She saw they were docked at a long stretch of wooden planking. There was a narrow strip of beach, tossed with driftwood. The land looked wild, all thick pine forests as far as she could see.
“Welcome to Crane Island. Albia assures me there won’t be any interruptions. It’s a perfect place, just what I needed. Come along, Nicola, don’t hang back like that. Pull yourself together. I expected more from you. Even Cleo didn’t carry on the way you are.”
But Nick was crying harder now, completely out of control. She dropped to her knees and crawled to Dwight. She clutched at his feet, his ankles, sobbing, “Please, Dwight, let us go. I swear I’ll never say a word. I’ll run and never come back. Don’t kill me.”
“God, you’re pathetic. Get up!”
But she didn’t, just kept pleading, trying to grab his knees.
He leaned down to grab her and pull her upright when Nick suddenly wrapped her arms around his knees and jerked him forward. He yelled, off-balance, and tried to hit her with the gun. Sherlock, who had been waiting, straightened and turned, smoothly sending her foot hard into his left kidney. He went stiff in agony, then yelled. He turned the gun on her, but Nick was hitting his knees, trying to jerk him down again. He struck Nick’s cheek with his fist, then whirled on Sherlock. He tried to back up, but her leg was up and she kicked him in the ribs. He didn’t dive away, ran straight at her and managed to grab a fistful of her hair. He twisted, pulled. Sherlock yelled in pain and rage, and first slammed her fist into his gut, then her foot into his crotch. He yelled, bent over, his finger pulling the trigger of his gun. Two shots went wild. Nick threw herself at his knees, shoved him backward with all her strength. As he fell, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard. He dropped the gun to the deck and fell on his face. Sherlock scooped it up.
Nick dove on top of him, hitting his face, his neck, yelling, “I’m not pathetic, you murdering jerk! I wouldn’t beg you for anything, you murdering son of a bitch! We got you and you’re going to rot in jail for the rest of your miserable life.”
Sherlock stood over them, the feeling returning to her hands and feet. “That was quite an act, Nick. Well done.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Nick said, and grinned up at Sherlock.
Then, suddenly, Dwight moved, lurched up, knocking Nick backward.
Sherlock said, “Thank you, Dwight,” and she kicked him in the head.
He crumbled back onto the deck.
Nick scrambled to her feet, yelling, “You bastard,” and hit him in the belly, then rose and kicked him hard in the ribs.
She looked over at Sherlock, grinned until she thought her mouth would split, and dusted off her hands.
“We’re good.”
Sherlock hugged her close, then leaned back. “We are good, Nick. We’re very good.”
“No one to match us,” Nick said.
“Let me get Dillon,” Sherlock said and went to the boat radio. She got the Coast Guard, which was just fine.
Twenty minutes later, when the Coast Guard launch pulled up to the Crane Island dock, with both Savich and Dane ready to leap onto Rothman’s boat, it was to see both Sherlock and Nick leaning over the side, waving to them.
“Why am I surprised?” Savich asked to no one in particular. “Thank God.”
“I’ve got to start breathing again,” Dane said. “Damn, I’ve never been so scared in my life. Just look at them, grinning from ear to ear. Is that Rothman lying facedown on the deck?”
“Oh no,” Nick said. “It wasn’t Senator Rothman. You guys were right all the time. It was Albia, and this is the man who tried to kill me three times.”
“Four times,” Sherlock said.
Dwight groaned, then slumped back on the deck.
“Hey, Dwight,” Nick shouted to him. “Am I lucky, or what?”
Dwight didn’t answer. With a scream of rage, he jerked upright, grabbed a knife out of his boot, and went after Nick. She froze. That knife was up, coming toward her, arching downward to her heart, and suddenly she was thrown to the deck onto her back. Dane was on him, both hands locked around his wrist, shaking, tightening.
Dwight screamed in his face, “You’re the Fed cop. Hey, I nearly got you once, I’ll do it again.”
“Oh no,” Dane said, let Dwight draw him in closer, then he drove his knee up into Dwight’s groin. He screamed, fell back. Dane slammed his fist into his belly, shoved him down. He was on top of him, slamming his head on the deck. Vaguely, he heard Savich call out. He saw the blur of the knife, realized he’d let his own rage get the better of him. He rolled off Dwight, came up, and when the man came at him again, crouched over, still in bad pain, Dane kicked him in the jaw. He went down like a rock.
This time he didn’t move. They all watched the knife slowly fall from his fingers.
“Good move,” Savich said, and squeezed his shoulder. He watched, smiling, as Dane turned, looked at Nick, then slowly brought her against him. They didn’t move for a very long time.
Sherlock said, “You know what, Dillon? I want to go buy some fat rollers this afternoon. We’ve put it off long enough, don’t you think?”
Savich laughed.
EPILOGUE
She watched Dane place the single white lily on top of Father Michael Joseph’s grave. He straightened, his head down. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying to his brother.
Finally, he raised his head and smiled at her. He said simply, “Michael loved Easter, and that means lilies.” He paused a moment. “I will miss him until I die. But at least he’s been avenged.”
“It isn’t enough,” she said. “It just isn’t enough.”
“No, of course not, but it’s something. Thank you for coming with me, Nicola.”
“No, please, just call me Nick. I don’t think I ever want to be called that other name again.”
“You got it. Whatcha say we go take Inspector Delion to lunch?”
“I’d like that.” She took his outstretched hand. He turned once to look back at his brother’s grave. The single lily looked starkly white atop the freshly turned dirt. Then he looked back at her and smiled.
Nick said, “Inspector Delion told me about this Mexican restaurant on Lombard called “La Barca.” Let’s go there.”
He grinned down at her. “You mean all I’ve got to do is give this girl a taco and she’s a happy camper?”
They walked in silence to the rental car. He said, “I just heard from Savich. Albia Rothman’s hearing was this morning. She pleaded not guilty. And you know what? Dwight Toomer isn’t rolling on her, at least not yet. We’ll have to see how tough the DA is. You’ll have to testify, Nick. It won’t be fun.”
“No, but maybe we can get justice for Cleo.”
“It’ll take a long time to come to court. Albia Rothman’s got big-tag lawyers. They’ll stall and evade and file more motions than O.J.’s lawyers. But i
“You know I resigned from the university.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, and waited, and thought of the huge box of condoms he had in his briefcase. He smiled even as she said, “I’ve been thinking I’d like to come east, maybe to Washington, D.C., see what’s available for an out-of-work college professor.”
He stopped, lightly touched his fingers to her cheek, smelled the fresh salty air, and said, “Yes, I think that’s a fine idea. Given your record for getting into trouble, it’s probably smart of you to get as close as possible to the biggest cop shop in the U.S.”
“I sure hope you’re wrong about that. I don’t even plan on getting a parking ticket. Dane, remember you wanted the next fifty years?”
“Yes, and then we’ll negotiate for more. I was thinking that someday Sean Savich will be a grown man and just maybe, if we have a girl, she and Sean could get together. What do you think?”
“Good grief. We’re not even married and you’ve already got our daughter married! Hmmm. To Sean Savich. We’ll have to speak to Savich and Sherlock about some sort of nuptial contract, what do you think?”
He laughed, took her hand, and felt a bolt of happiness fill him, deep and bright. He turned back once more to see the lily atop Michael’s grave lightly waving in the salty breeze.
Catherine Coulter, Eleventh Hour
(Series: FBI Thriller # 7)