Paradox by Catherine Coulter
Victor stood behind her while she unlocked her front door, surprised to hear Lissy whispering in his ear. You want to have some fun, Victor? All right, let’s go play with the little slut.
Why wasn’t Lissy still jealous? It made him mad. Time to turn up the heat. He whispered under his breath, “Nah, you don’t want to play with her, Lissy, but I do. She’s really pretty. Time to enjoy myself. You need to leave us alone.”
You think you’re going to screw her? Fat chance. Once we’re upstairs, well, you’ll see. It’s time for me to have some good old-fashioned fun, too, not just you.
“You already had your fun today. We blew up a church, Lissy, this morning. Wasn’t that enough for you?”
Yeah, we did, but hey, did you manage to kill anybody? Haven’t heard you did. That precious FBI agent you locked in the closet at Gatewood, there he was, all hale and hearty, and even old Octavia’s coffin made it out okay. So nope, I’m not about to miss more fun. I do like you looking dark and dangerous. I guess the little slut agrees with me. But you need some more glue or your beard’s going to molt off.
“Did you say something, Victor? Ah, at last, this heat makes the door sticky. Come in, come in. You open windows for air, and I’ll put on the air conditioner.”
Victor walked into a small entrance hall that held a side table with a mirror over it, covered with a stack of mail that looked mostly like bills to him. Poor Cindy, tips must not be very good at the diner.
He followed her into a narrow living room with a small dining area and a one-person kitchen beyond. Cindy had movie posters all over the walls, mainly Justin Timberlake, the putz. It was hot and stuffy, so he quickly opened a couple of windows and let the fresh air flow over him. He waited. Lissy was quiet. Maybe she was jealous again?
He felt a hit of lust when Cindy came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with two shot glasses filled with what looked like bourbon. No iced tea chaser, fine by him. Victor liked the way her blond hair fell over her left eye and she had to constantly push it back. She handed him his shot glass, then lifted her own and tapped it to his. “Here you go, Victor. Bottoms up.”
They drank the bourbon straight down. Victor thought his throat would explode, it was so hot. Not good bourbon, some rotgut. He managed not to spit it out.
“Would you like to listen to some music? I’ll get us some more bourbon in a minute.”
He felt Lissy coming near, and nearer still, getting ready to talk, her breath hot, rancid, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop her. She didn’t want to play, didn’t want him to have fun. She’d fooled him, and now she was going to take Cindy down.
The empty bourbon glass went flying when the first kick hit Cindy’s left leg. She stumbled back, yelled, “Why’d you do that? What’s wrong with you?”
Cindy was strong, she was fit, but she knew she couldn’t win if he really came after her, not in the long run. She’d invited the monster into her apartment herself. Fear paralyzed her for a moment, then fury. She kicked out, aiming for his crotch, like her brother Simon had taught her. But he was bent to the side as he ran at her, and her foot struck him full strength in the belly. He lurched back, grabbed his stomach, and keened, as if she’d shot him and he was dying. He screamed, but it was high, more like a wail. “You bitch! You kicked me right in my staples!” A knife appeared in his hand. She hadn’t even seen him pull it out of his pants pocket, and she backed up into the kitchen. He continued to scream at her, cursing her, his voice still high, hysterical, not making sense. Then he ran at her, trapping her in the kitchen. The knife was raised high over his head, and she saw tears running down his face. She grabbed a skillet off the stove and hit out at the knife, knocking it aside for a moment, but he backhanded her, knocked the skillet out of her hand. The knife was coming down at her again. She kicked out, but again she missed, got his thigh. “You puking little bitch!”
She kicked out once more, and this time she got him firmly in the crotch. He stood frozen, the knife in his fist, and he stared at her, then crumpled to the floor, moaning and holding himself, rolling over, cursing and crying. Cindy ran, tried to pull open the front door, but it was stuck again, and her hands were slippery with sweat. She yanked and pulled. She heard him stumbling to his feet. She heard the click of a bullet being chambered.
49
* * *
SAVICH HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Sherlock poured Cheerios into a Transformers cereal bowl before realizing Sean wasn’t there to eat it. He was still at his grandmother’s house. She stood in the center of the kitchen, staring down at the bowl, and cried.
She felt Dillon pull her against him. She burrowed her face into his shoulder and cried some more.
She hiccupped, got a grip on herself, and finally pulled away. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” She knuckled her eyes. “Crying like an idiot, it never helps. What’s wrong with me?” She looked up at him and felt another tear slide down her face. “Dillon, I miss Sean so much, and it’s all because of that psycho Victor Nesser. We’ve got to find him, Dillon. This is personal. I’d like to shoot him, maybe dump him in Lake Massey, let his bones lie there forever.”
Not a bad idea. Savich said, “Last night I dreamed Sean and I were throwing a football in our backyard. I threw the football over the fence, and Sean took a running leap and cleared that fence by a good foot, howling with laughter.” He stopped cold. He wasn’t about to tell Sherlock that right before he awoke, he’d realized Sean hadn’t come back. Savich had vaulted the fence to find him, but he saw only fog and shadows. Like in his vision at Gatewood. Savich closed his eyes against the fear he felt. She was right. They had to find Victor and end this. At least Buzz Riley was safe, visiting one of his kids in Chicago rather than flying to Saint Thomas. As far as Savich knew, he and Sherlock and Sean were the only people left in Washington on Victor’s hit list.
He pulled her close again, kissed her hair, felt her shudder. She said against his neck, “I would have liked to see Sean jump that back fence. Where was Astro?”
“He was barking his head off, cheering Sean on. But he wasn’t Astro, he was a thirty-pound bulldog, and he couldn’t move very fast.” His cell phone sang out “Shape of You” by Ed Sheeran.
He looked down at the ID. “It’s Sala.”
“He’s calling this early, it’s got to be important.”
“Sala, what’s going on in Willicott?”
He listened as he watched Sherlock carefully stack Sean’s favorite Transformers cereal bowl back in the cupboard then splay her hands on the counter, as if for support. Then she straightened, shoulders back, head up, and he saw the steel in her. “You said the chief of police, who’s also Leigh Saks’s godfather, said she’s different? Her mother agreed? Different how, exactly?”
Finally, he said, “Okay, Sherlock and I will drive up to Haggersville. Give us a couple of hours. We’ll see you at the hospital. If anything comes up in the meantime, call me.”
He punched off his cell. “This sounds interesting.” He told Sherlock what Sala had said about Leigh Saks. “Let me call Ollie, make sure everything’s on track at work. Maybe we’ll get a lucky break and someone will spot Victor again.”
But there hadn’t been a lucky break by 10:30 a.m., when Savich and Sherlock walked into the Haggersville Community Hospital ICU. They saw a young officer on guard outside one of the cubicles. He immediately rose and held up his hand. Savich and Sherlock pulled out their creds and introduced themselves. A tall man came out of the cubicle, his bespoke suit wrinkled, his eyes tired. Savich immediately recognized Congressman Andrew Mellon.
“I heard your name, Agent Savich. I know who you are and have greatly admired your career.” Mellon shook Savich’s hand. He turned then. “You must be Agent Sherlock.” He beamed at her, pumped her hand. “Saving all those lives at JFK. It was amazing. I’m one of your biggest fans.”
“Thank you.”
Mellon said, “Agent Po
Savich’s eyebrow went up. “Your daughter? Leigh Saks is your daughter?”
“Yes, she is.”
Sherlock gave the congressman a long look. “So it took her nearly being murdered for you to come and acknowledge her?”
He took the blow and nodded. “Yes, I know. It was past time. Thirty years past time.” He straightened. “But I’m here now. I’ll do what I can to help.”
Savich said, “We’re glad you’re here, Congressman. Agent Porto told us Leigh’s godfather and her mother said she’s changed.”
Mellon nodded. “I’d always understood she was slow, perhaps simple, but since I’ve never been part of her life, all I see is the young woman I met this morning for the first time. There seems to be nothing simple about her. As you know, she was struck on the head, had surgery. Both Lulie and Chief Masters say she’s no longer the same person since she woke up. She told her mother her name wasn’t Gunny, it was Leigh, which is indeed her name of record.”
He pulled open the curtain of one of the cubicles, beckoned for someone to come out. Mellon said, “This is Leigh’s mother, Lulie.”
They introduced themselves to Lulie Saks, showed her their creds. She leaned in, her voice almost a whisper. “Agent Porto told me he’d asked you to see her. He said you might understand what has happened to her.” She searched Savich’s face. “It is true, she is different, completely different. I hope you have some idea of why she’d changed. Agent Porto said you were very talented in, well, seeing past the obvious. At understanding people. The doctor didn’t seem to really grasp the situation yesterday. Come in and meet my daughter. She’s been in and out.” Lulie drew a deep breath. “Andrew and I told her he is her father. She’d never met him because neither he nor I wanted his wife and children to suffer from the situation, but now everything’s changed. He came because she’d been hurt.”
Congressman Mellon said, “Lulie is protecting me, and some of it will remain private, though I’m not sure for long. I was selfish, concerned about my father’s threat to stop supporting my political career and afraid to let it be known I had a daughter out of wedlock, afraid of the effect on my wife and my family, too concerned my other children would be scarred from this relationship. But they’re adults now, out on their own. They’ll adjust. When Lulie called to tell me Gunny—Leigh—had been nearly killed on the street, all my excuses were no longer important.” He paused, gave them a big smile. “My daughter’s what’s important now.”
Lulie said, “Needless to say, finding out Andrew is her father came as quite a shock to her. But she took it all in, wanted to know everything.”
He shook his head. “I only hope she’ll come to forgive me, perhaps even someday to accept me.” He laughed. “She didn’t even know I was her congressman. Isn’t that a kick in the ego?”
Lulie gave him a light tap on the arm. “She’ll come to know you, Andrew, and she’ll come to accept what happened. She has a good heart, trust me. It’s time for you to meet her, Agent Savich, Agent Sherlock.” Lulie pulled back the cubicle curtain.
Leigh was awake. Her head hurt, but not too badly anymore, the pain reliever they’d given her still swimming happily in her bloodstream. She was still sort of floating up near the ceiling from the medication, feeling utterly calm, a lovely feeling she knew wouldn’t last. She opened her eyes to see her mom and her—father. Yes, that distinguished man was her father. She was thirty years old and she’d finally met the man who’d had an affair with her mother all those years ago. He’d come when she’d gotten hurt. That said something good about the man who always sent money but never brought himself into her life. He was tall—important for a politician—and handsome, but she hadn’t seen any of herself in him. She didn’t know what to think of him. Yet. She had so many questions, endless questions she wanted to ask both of them. They stood aside, and she watched a big man walk to her. He was several years older than she was, his complexion dark, maybe Mediterranean, his hair and eyes dark as well. He was tough-looking, a man, she knew intuitively, no one would mess with. He smiled down at her, a very nice white-toothed smile, and she felt a jolt. He wasn’t only built, but he was also hot, and she assumed he knew it. Most good-looking guys she’d met in her adult years had known very well their effect on women and exploited it. She gave him a tentative smile in return, then looked beyond him to a tall, slender, very pretty woman about her own age. She looked like a princess, fine-boned, with beautiful curly red hair and fairy-tale blue eyes, wearing no-nonsense black slacks, a white blouse, a black jacket, and low-heeled boots on her feet. This woman wouldn’t suffer fools gladly, any more than the man would. She, too, was smiling at Leigh.
She looked between them, then said matter-of-factly, “You’re married, aren’t you? Who are you?” Was that her voice, all insubstantial and paper thin?
50
* * *
Savich cocked his head at the young woman with her head swathed in a white bandage. Despite the pain meds he knew she was on, he still felt the pull of her. “My name’s Agent Savich, she’s Agent Sherlock. Yes, we’re married. We have a little boy. He’ll be five in September. It’s the first thing out of his mouth whenever he meets someone new. And you’re Ms. Leigh Saks. Agent Porto asked that we come here to speak with you.” Savich took Leigh’s hand between his. He again felt the pull of her. She was looking at him, searching his face, probing. This young woman was considered simple yesterday?
When the FBI agent took one of her hands in his, Leigh felt the warmth and, oddly, utterly safe. She looked up into his dark eyes and felt a different kind of jolt, a kind of recognition, a feeling of connection. “I saw you on TV Monday.”
“You saw me talking about the belt buckle?”
She nodded. “I’m told that’s why I was hit on the head.”
“Could you tell me what happened?”
Leigh felt a flash of pain, but then it fell away. She saw a door trying to open in her mind, knew what was behind that door, but she wasn’t ready to remember it, not yet. She gave her head a slight shake. “Did you meet my father? I just met him myself. I never knew him. Mom never talked about him. But now he’s here, and he promised me we’d see each other from now on.” She closed her eyes a moment, whispered, “Everything seems so very strange. I nearly died, and now I have a father.”
Savich lightly squeezed her hand and felt something he rarely felt—a bond, vague and undefined, but still there. He said only, “Don’t push, Leigh. I know you’re not ready. There’s no rush, all right?”
How could he know she wasn’t ready? Leigh said, “Does your son look like you or like Agent Sherlock?”
Sherlock had taken a position on the other side of Leigh’s bed. She said, her voice calm and easy, “He’s a carbon copy of his father, which I’ve never thought was fair. I mean, I did all the work. You’re very pretty, Ms. Saks. Our son would tell you that you look like a princess within a minute of meeting you.”
“Me, pretty? A princess?” Leigh touched her fingers to the white bandage around her head. “Shall I consider this my crown, then?” She wasn’t aware her mother was staring at her, mouth agape. As for the tall, aristocratic man looking at her, the man who was her father, he was smiling at her, and in that smile, she suddenly saw a flash of herself. But how could she smile back? She didn’t know him any more than she knew these FBI agents. So many questions were swimming around in her head, floating in and out, and an occasional jab of pain where the surgeon had cut into her head, and wasn’t that a gruesome thought? “Mom said my dad came because he heard I was hurt. I wished all my life he’d come, but he never did until now. I thought he was ashamed of me. If so, I can’t blame him. I mean, I was no Einstein, more on a level with Einstein’s dog.”
“No,” Mellon said, “that wasn’t it at all.”
“Good, I’m very glad to hear it. Since you’re a politician, I imagine you can explain why you never recognized me, but I’m hoping you won’t feel
“Your brain is functioning beautifully,” Sherlock said. “It’s tough recovering from surgery. I know. Now, you have some pain and you’re tired, so please tell us to leave when you want to go to sleep, all right?”
Leigh gave a little nod. “So far, so good. Of course, you have questions for me, questions are everywhere, aren’t they, bubbling around in my brain. But maybe I can answer yours.”
Savich said, “Leigh, you said you saw me on TV Monday. Do you remember I asked anyone who could identify the Star of David belt buckle to call our hotline?”
“Yes, I remember, and I did call eventually. But that didn’t end well, did it? I believe I managed to tell the man on the hotline it was Mr. Henry’s belt buckle and it was a secret, but I don’t know if it was of any real help. And help with what exactly, I’d like to know?”