Riptide (24 page)

Everyone wanted to interview Becca Matlock, but no one knew where she was.

The New York cops wanted to talk to her, but this time, she didn't have to put up with Letitia Gordon. The FBI had told them to stuff it after the murder of the four FBI agents in NYU Hospital. There was a lot of name-calling, a lot of rancor, but at least she wasn't in the middle of it now. She'd been lost in the shuffle. She was safe.

As for Thomas Matlock, his identity had leaked quickly enough, but at least no one knew where he was, either. If there had been a leak, they knew media vans would be parked in the yard and microphones would be sticking through the windows of the house.

As it was, everything was quiet. The agents posted all around the house and the neighborhood checked in regularly, reporting nothing suspicious.

Ex-KGB agent Vasili Krimakov—who he was exactly, where he was at present, what his motives were, anything and everything that could possibly be tied to him—was discussed fully, exhaustively, on every news show, every
talking-head show. Ex–CIA operatives, ex–FBI antiterrorist agents, and three former presidential aides spoke authoritatively about him with Sam Donaldson and Cokie Roberts, Tim Russert, and William Safire. The question was: Why did he want Thomas Matlock so badly? The question remained unanswered until there was some sort of anonymous release from Berlin about how Thomas Matlock had saved Kemper's life and in the process accidentally killed the wife of the Soviet agent, Vasili Krimakov, who'd been sent to present-day Belarus to assassinate Kemper. The press went wild. Larry King interviewed a former aide to President Carter who remembered perfectly and in great detail the incident when CIA Operative Thomas Matlock had a face-off with Krimakov in the faraway land, killed his wife by accident, and the resulting brouhaha with the Russians. No one else could seem to recall any of it, including President Carter himself, and everyone knew that President Carter remembered everything, including the number of rubber bands in his Oval Office desk drawer.

An ex–United States Marine who had served with Thomas Matlock back in the seventies spoke authoritatively about how Thomas had refused to be intimidated by the enemy. Which enemy? Didn't matter, Thomas would go to hell and back before he'd ever break. This wasn't at all relevant, but nobody really cared. The bottom line was that all the folk interviewed were ex- or former somethings. The current FBI and CIA directors had put a seal on everything. The president and his staff weren't saying a word, at least officially. Everything was working as it had always worked. Speculation was rife, theories were rampant, but nothing could be proved.

As for Rebecca Matlock, the governor of New York was quoted as saying, “She was an excellent speechwriter with a flair for humor and irony. We miss her.” And then he'd rubbed his neck where Krimakov had shot him.

NYPD continued with their “No comment” when there was any question from the press about her. There was no
more talk about her being an accomplice to the shooting of Governor Bledsoe. Thank God, Becca thought, that no one had found out about Letitia Gordon. She'd bet Detective Gordon would be glad to trash-talk her.

Every murder Krimakov had committed was brought out and examined publicly and exhaustively. There was public outrage.

But no one knew where Rebecca Matlock was.

No one knew where or really who Thomas Matlock was, but the world was coming to believe that he was a dashing, quite romantic James Bond sort of guy who had kept the world safe from the Russians and was now being hunted by a former KGB agent who didn't hesitate to murder people to draw him out.

Becca wondered aloud later to Adam about what the United States Marine had said about Thomas on TV. Adam, who was cleaning his Delta Elite at the kitchen table, said, “It means that this ass got paid maybe five hundred bucks to say something so the ratings would spike.”

“The guy said Thomas would never break. What does that mean?”

Adam shrugged. “Who cares? I just hope that Krimakov is watching. Talk about misdirection. Maybe he'll come to believe that Thomas is invincible.” Adam snorted, then buffed the handle of his pistol. “We couldn't do it better if we scripted it ourselves.”

“I wonder if Detective Gordon still thinks I'm somehow responsible for all of it.”

“I think once she makes up her mind, it'd take an avalanche to change it. Yeah, she still thinks you're a big part of it. I spoke to Detective Morales. I could see him shaking his head over the phone. He's depressed, but glad you're safe now.”

“It was the murder of Linda Cartwright that got everybody going.”

“Yes. She was an innocent. A very nice middle-class woman. Everyone wants him to fry for what he did to her.
Don't forget that older woman in Ithaca. Another innocent. Krimakov has a lot to answer for.”

“Does anyone know yet how Dick McCallum was involved with him?”

“Yeah. Hatch found out that McCallum's mother had an extra fifty thousand bucks in a checking account.”

“That doesn't seem like so much money if you have to die to get it. Did she tell the police or Hatch if Dick told her anything?”

Adam shook his head, lifted his gun, looked at a face that needed a shave in the reflection of the barrel. “Nope. She was upset about it, but he wouldn't tell her anything, except to keep the money quiet, which she did until Hatch tracked her down and got her to talk.”

“The FBI are coming soon.”

“Yeah. Don't worry, both Thomas and I will be there.”

She smiled at him. “That's nice, Adam, but unnecessary. I'm not a child or helpless, you know. And I do know Mr. Cobb, and poor Mr. Hawley, who's got hemorrhoids.”

He grinned up at her. “Nope, it's Cobb with the hemorrhoids. Now, you were helpless, don't try to rewrite the past, and I don't care what you say, I'll be there.”

“I should probably go dig out my Coonan and buff it.”

“I'd just as soon never see that pistol anywhere near you again.”

“Scared you but good, didn't I?”

Thomas appeared in the kitchen doorway, frowning. “This is odd, but a man named Tyler McBride called Gaylan Woodhouse's office with the message that you, Becca, were to call him immediately. Nothing more, just that instruction.”

“I don't understand,” Becca said, “but of course I'll call him. What's going on?”

Adam was on his feet in an instant. “I don't like this. Why would McBride call the director of the CIA?”

“I'll find out, Adam. He's probably really worried and wants to make sure I'm okay.”

Adam said, “I don't want you to call Tyler McBride. I don't want him anywhere near you. I'll call him, find out what the hell he wants. If he wants reassurance, I'll give it to him.”

“Look, Adam, you told me he was really scared for me. He just wants to hear my voice. I'm not going to tell him where I am. Now, I'm calling him. Let it go.”

“Why don't you two stop bickering?” Thomas said. “Call the man, Becca. If something's wrong, Adam, she'll tell us.”

“I still don't like it. Another thing: I've been thinking that maybe you would be safer at my house. At least you could stay there some of the time.”

Her left eyebrow went up. “Where do you live, Mr. Carruthers?”

“About three miles down the road.”

She stared at him. “Then why are you staying here? Why aren't you going home at all?”

“I'm needed here,” he said, studiously rubbing the barrel of his Delta Elite to an even higher shine. “Besides, I do go home. Where do you think I get clean clothes?”

“Get over it, Adam,” she said, and went to get her small address book.

“Use my private line,” Thomas said. “It's untraceable. Adam, your gun looks good.”

“You'll like my house,” Adam called after her. “It's a showcase, it's the prettiest place you've ever seen. Plants don't like me, but everything else does. I have a housekeeper come in twice a week and she even makes me casseroles.”

Becca turned to face him. “What kind?”

“Tuna, ham and sweet potato, whatever. Do you like casseroles?”

“You bet,” she said.

He heard her laugh as she walked away.

He wanted to hear what she said to Tyler McBride, he really did, but he didn't move. Neither did Thomas, who
stood there leaning against the refrigerator, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I'm giving her privacy,” Adam said. “It's tough.”

“Yeah, and you want her to think about your house, don't you?”

“It's a very nice house—an old Georgian brick two-story, lovely yard that I pay a big chunk to keep looking good. Remember I told you how my mom talked me into buying the property some four years before, told me it was a good investment. She was right.”

Thomas said, “Parents usually are.”

Adam grunted and looked at his reflection in the gun barrel. “McBride wants her, that's why he's called. He wants her to know that he's still laying claim. Damn, I don't trust him, Thomas. He'll use Sam if he has to. He can't have her.”

Thomas said, grinning now, “I can see the scowl on your face in the barrel of the gun. No, more than a scowl.”

Adam grunted. “How about seriously pissed off?”

What was she saying to Tyler McBride? Worse, what was he saying to her?

I
n her father's study, the door closed, Becca was leaning on the big mahogany desk, so pale, so off balance that she felt transparent. She knew that if she looked in a mirror, she wouldn't see anything at all. “No, Tyler,” she said again. “I can't believe this.”

“No, Becca, it's happened. Sam is gone. Gone from his bed when I looked in on him this morning. There was this note pinned to his blanket that said I had to call you, that I could get to you by calling the office of the CIA director. So I did. And now you've called.”

“No, Sam can't be gone,” Becca said, but she knew that he was, she just knew it.

“He wrote in the note that I wasn't to say a word to anyone, not the local cops, not anyone, just you. He wrote that he'd kill Sam if I said anything.”

She heard his breathing hitch before he said, “Thank God you called, Becca. Jesus, what am I going to do?”

Becca heard the awful deadening fear in his voice, the anger, the helplessness.

“Don't call Sheriff Gaffney, Tyler. Don't. Let me think.”

He nearly yelled, “Of course I won't call Sheriff
Gaffney. Do you think I'm nuts?” Then he added, more calmly now, “He wrote that you had to come to Riptide.”

Oh, God, she thought, and said, “Just a second, Tyler, let me get Adam.”

“No!” She nearly dropped the phone he'd yelled so loud. Then she heard him draw a deep breath. “No, Becca, please, not yet. He says if you tell anyone—including your father—he'll kill Sam. Dammit, I didn't even know you had a father until the media went nuts over you and him. Jesus, Becca, the guy's just murdered four more people. He's got Sam. Do you hear me? That maniac's got Sam!”

“I know, I know. Read me the entire note, Tyler.”

“Oh God, all right.” He was breathing hard, and she knew he was trying to get control. Finally, his voice more steady, he read: “‘Mr. McBride, you will speak as soon as possible to Rebecca Matlock. To find her, call the office of the director of the CIA. Tell them to inform her that she is to call you immediately, that a life is at stake. Then you will tell her to come to Riptide. You will tell her not to tell anyone, including her father, or else your son is dead. You don't want him to end up like Linda Cartwright. You have twenty-four hours.' ”

“How did he sign it?”

“He didn't sign any name at all. Just what I read to you, that's it. Oh God, Becca, what am I to do? You know what he did to Linda Cartwright, what he's done to all those other people. Look at what he did to you. All of Maine is up in arms about Cartwright's murder.” He waited a beat, then yelled, “Aren't you listening to me? A fucking Russian agent has got my son!”

“I wonder why he doesn't want my father to come? It's my father he's after. It just doesn't make any sense.”

“I've listened to everything on the news,” Tyler said, calmer now. “It doesn't make any sense to me, either. Please, Becca, you've got to come. If you hadn't called me, I don't know what I'd have done.”

“If I come, he'll hold me to get my father. Then he'll
kill both of us.” She didn't add that he would also kill Sam. Why wouldn't he? She was afraid that Sam was already dead, but she wasn't about to say it aloud. Just the thought nearly brought her to her knees. Not Sam, not that precious little boy. No, she couldn't fall apart. Think. There had to be something she could do.

“Oh shit, I know he'd try to kill both of you. Yes, I know that. What are we going to do?”

“I don't know, Tyler.”

“Please don't tell that Adam character or your father, please.”

“All right. Not yet, anyway. If I do decide to tell them, I'll call you first, warn you. I'll get back to you in three hours, Tyler. Oh God, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I should never have come to Riptide. The man's crazy, obsessed.”

He didn't disagree with her, on any of it. “Three hours, Becca. Please, you've got to come. Maybe you and I together can trap him. Somehow.”

When Adam came into Thomas's study five minutes later, he saw her standing at the front window, staring out over the fine green lawn. She was rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingers, her shoulders slumped. She looked defeated, beaten down. He frowned.

“What's going on? Why did McBride have to speak to you?”

She shrugged. “It was just as you thought. He was worried about me, very worried, what with all the stuff on TV.”

“I don't believe that's all, is it?”

Then she turned slowly to face him. “Of course it is. The FBI people have just pulled up.” The car was black, the two men were wearing black, their hair was cut short. And Krimakov had taken Sam. He moved fast, too fast, faster than any of them could have imagined. What to do?

“What's wrong, Becca? You look white around the gills.”

“Not a thing, Adam. It's Agent Hawley and Agent Cobb. Let's see what they have to say. I suppose they're sworn to secrecy about where they've come from?”

Adam said as he walked toward the front door, “They would be drawn and quartered if they ever opened their mouths.”

Adam shook the two men's hands and stepped back. Tellie Hawley said, “It's good to see you again, Adam. Mr. Matlock, Ms. Matlock. Bet you're wondering how we got ourselves assigned to this.”

“It did cross my mind,” Thomas said, as he waved them toward the living room.

“Boy, it's hot out there,” Scratch Cobb said, gave Becca a big smile, and unbuttoned his black suit coat one button. “A very nice house,” Scratch added to Thomas as he walked beside him into the living room. He was looking at a particularly lovely old Tabriz carpet.

“Thank you, Agent Cobb,” Thomas said. “Won't you be seated?”

After everyone was settled, Agent Hawley said, “Since we were the ones who initially spoke to Ms. Matlock in the hospital, and since I knew you, sir, Mr. Bushman decided we should stay on as the leads. Of course Savich and Sherlock are on it as well, and he approves of that. It doesn't mean, of course, that the folk here at FBI headquarters are sitting on their hands. They're not.”

Thomas nodded. “No, they never do. I'm very sorry about the agents Krimakov murdered in New York, Hawley. It's got to be an awful blow.”

Tellie Hawley turned pale, then just as suddenly he flushed red with anger. “The bastard killed four more people in cold blood. He just waltzed into the hospital—God knows how he was disguised—and he killed the two agents guarding her room, then went inside and put six shots in Agent Marlane and three more shots in Del's head. How did he get away? We don't know. Damnation, it's driving everyone nuts. His aged photo is plastered everywhere. We've got dozens of agents walking around a mile radius of NYU Hospital showing everyone his photo. Nothing yet.” He stopped and Becca could feel the pain, the guilt, the rage, radiating from him, spilling out in
waves. He'd been the one in charge, the one giving orders. She wouldn't want to be in his shoes. She felt guilty enough in her own shoes.

Sam. Oh God, Sam. What to do?

She watched Tellie Hawley get himself together. He cleared his throat, looked directly at her, and said, “Now, Ms. Matlock, we're here to speak to you in detail about your time with him.”

“I'm very sorry, Agent Hawley, but I've told you everything I know. I wish there were more but I just can't come up with anything else, even irrelevant.”

Agent Hawley sat forward in his chair, his hands dangling between his legs. “The mind is a marvelous instrument, Ms. Matlock. It takes in stuff you're not even aware of. We're betting you do know more about Krimakov. You just don't remember it on a conscious level. We're hoping it's lurking in your subconscious. Ah, Agent Cobb here is an expert hypnotist. He'd like to take you under, really get at what this guy was like, maybe even what he looked like. You know, stuff you've blocked out or you're not even aware that you know, stuff you just can't bring up to a conscious level.”

Agent Cobb handed her the old photo of Krimakov. “You've seen this?”

“Yes, of course. My father showed it to me immediately, the aged photo as well. I've studied and studied it. I'm sorry, but I just don't know if it's him. I never saw him. He was always in the shadows.”

“Look again at the aged photo.”

She took it, studied it yet again. She still saw an older man, whose face was lean and deeply tanned from years of living on the Mediterranean. His hair had receded, leaving two deep slashes of tanned scalp on either side of a spear of gray hair. His eyes were dark, his features Slavic, wide, flat cheekbones. He looked like he could be a very nice grandfather. And she wondered: Is that you? Are you the one who took me from Jacob Marley's house? Did you lick my cheek? She handed Agent Cobb back the photo. “I have
thought and thought. I really don't consciously remember anything more. I'm willing to go under.”

“Are you sure, Becca? You don't have to.”

She glanced toward her father, who was standing behind a chair, looking at her intently. She didn't know that very handsome man with all those expressions on his face that she didn't understand, but then, she realized that she did know him; on a very deep level, she knew him quite well. It was a very strange feeling. “Yes, sir”—her voice was steady—“I'm sure.”

“All right, then,” Agent Cobb said, looking directly at her. “There's nothing to be concerned about. I don't go for the couch thing. I prefer the traditional face-to-face method.

“Now, there are also many different ways to hypnotize someone. I use the fixation object method.” He pulled a shiny pocket watch out of his vest pocket. For a moment he looked embarrassed, then shrugged. “It belonged to my grandfather. I've always worn it, just discovered a couple of years ago that it was the perfect object for me to use to relax people. Now, I want you to sit back and look at this watch, Becca. Just listen to the sound of my voice.” He started talking, nonsense really, his voice low and smooth and never rising, never falling, always the same. She stared at the watch that was swinging gently back and forth, back and forth. “You will find that your eyelids have a tendency to get heavy,” he said in that singsong soft voice. “That's right, just look at the watch. See how it's moving so slowly right before your eyes?”

Agent Cobb continued reciting a familiar litany to everyone in the room. His voice stayed low and smooth and very intimate. That damned watch kept swinging back and forth, shiny, gold, swinging. Adam had to shake his head and look away. He was getting drawn under.

Five minutes later, Becca was still staring at the shiny gold pocket watch, listening to Agent Cobb's voice telling her about how her eyes were going to close now, how she felt good, and comfortable, how she could just let herself
drift. But she didn't. She tried desperately to relax, to get with the program, but she couldn't. All she could see was Sam, that sweet little boy, holding out his arms to her, smiling but hardly ever saying anything. Krimakov had him. He would kill him, kill him without hesitation, without a qualm of regret, if she didn't do something. An innocent child, it didn't matter to him, any more than Linda Cartwright had mattered. She had to—

Agent Cobb knew it wasn't working, but he kept swinging the watch as he said calmly, in an easy, deep voice, “You were sound asleep, right, Becca, the night he took you?”

“Yes, I was,” she said, her voice slow, mimicking his. “I remember knowing that I wasn't dreaming, a very good thing. Then I felt this prick in my arm and I jerked awake. It was him.”

“But you couldn't make out his features? Could you make out anything? Surmise anything from the way he was standing, the way he held his arms? His body?”

She shook her head. “No, I'm sorry.”

“You're not going under, Becca.” Scratch sighed. He lowered the beautiful gold watch, slipping it easily back into his vest pocket. “I don't know why it's not working. Usually someone very intelligent, very creative, like you are, goes under right away. But you didn't.”

She knew why. She couldn't tell him, couldn't tell anyone.

He said in that same easy voice, hitting it right on target, “Something's holding you back. Perhaps you know what it is?” When she didn't say anything, he looked over at Thomas Matlock. “No go. For whatever reason.”

Tellie Hawley nodded. “Okay, then, we ask questions and you answer as best you can.”

She nodded and talked. And there wasn't anything at all new or earth-shattering. Except—

“Adam, did anyone find anything in the hem of my nightgown?”

He shook his head.

“Then he must have found it,” she said. “He let me go to the bathroom. I knew I had to do something. I managed to unscrew one of those enamel bolts that hold the toilet to the floor. I pulled open the hem in my nightgown and worked it in. He must have found it.”

“Yes,” said Hawley, “he found it. He left the toilet bolt in the room, on Agent Marlane's bed. The techs found it and I read it on the collected evidence sheet—‘one toilet bolt'—and I just forgot about it in all the chaos. Actually when the techs found it, they thought some nurse's aide had dropped it and they were laughing about it. Well, it wasn't any joke. That proves conclusively it was the same guy.” He shook his head. “A toilet bolt, a damned toilet bolt.”