The FBI Thrillers Collection (140 page)

“A hard-ass,” Ruth agreed, pleased.

Dix smiled a perfunctory smile that didn’t show at all in his stiff voice. “So is the FBI going to take over here?”

Sherlock gave him her sunny smile. “Oh no, Sheriff Noble, we’re simply here to help. After all, Ruth is one of ours. Dillon called our boss, told him what we were doing. Mr. Maitland wants this cleared up as well. He hates it when someone tries to kill one of his agents.”

Savich said clearly, looking Dixon Noble in the eye, “We have no intention of bigfooting you, Sheriff, banish the thought. We can help you with equipment, information, anything you need.”

Dix still didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “Would you like more tea, Agent Savich?”

 

DIX PUNCHED OFF his cell phone. He was grinning when he walked back into the living room. “The boys got a better offer than Dad’s leftover stew for dinner. They’re having pizza at the Claussons’ house with a bunch of other kids, bless the Claussons and all their ancestors, so we don’t have to watch what we say. I twisted the truth a bit, told them you FBI big shots weren’t staying long this evening, which meant they wouldn’t be able to get much out of you. That and the ‘Garbage Dump’ pizzas turned the tide.”

After they’d eaten the sheriff’s stew for dinner, Sherlock watched Ruth, as natural as could be, fill the kettle at the sink and put it on the stove, and fetch tea bags from a big messy cupboard. “Hey, we’ve got some cheese and crackers for dessert. They’re closed with a rubber band so they shouldn’t be stale.”

Dix laughed. “Sorry I didn’t have more to offer you for dinner.”

“The stew was excellent,” Sherlock said. “You’re a good cook, Sheriff.”

“I learned,” he said shortly, and put tea bags into two cups. “Ruth, more coffee?”

He was watching her as she nodded. “Ruth—I like that. I suppose it sounds more like you than Madonna. It’s powerful, biblical.”

Ruth smiled at him. “Sorry to switch names on you in the middle of the stream, Sheriff. Where do you think Dillon and Sherlock should stay in Maestro?”

“At Bud Bailey’s B-and-B, right on High Street, half a block from my office. Oh, I forgot, Ruth. Tell me where you were staying. No one recognized your photo.”

“I hadn’t made a reservation anywhere. I thought after I got my treasure, I’d drive back home if it wasn’t too late.”

“Did you get gas anywhere?”

“Sure, in Hamilton.”

The sheriff frowned. “That’s a bit too far up the road for us to have canvassed. Where do you live?”

“In Alexandria.”

Sherlock said, “The men in the truck that blew up—have they done the autopsies yet?”

“We were lucky we could get the county ME to work on Sunday. Even though the men were burned real bad, he managed to pull up some partial prints, and some dental X-rays. They had to come from somewhere. We’re hoping there’ll be missing persons reports on them in the next couple of days. Unless they were brought in, and that would make them professionals. There wasn’t much time for that, so that may mean some sort of local group is behind this, whoever they are and whatever this is. In any case, I’ve called in all my deputies, and now the FBI is involved. Any ideas you guys can come up with will be appreciated.”

It was grudging, Savich thought, but it was a start, and the sheriff almost meant it. “We’ll plan to head out to Winkel’s Cave with you as our first stop tomorrow morning.” He turned to Ruth. “You want us to bring anything?”

Dix said as he shook his head, “No, I can provide flashlights and head lamps and picks in case we need them. We have a stack of them in the department.”

Savich nodded, and continued to Ruth, “I don’t suppose you got permission from the Park Service to go into that cave on Friday, did you?”

“Good news. Winkel’s Cave is on private land. Mr. Weaver, the owner, and I have already made a deal. He even had a locked gate in there, but no key, so I kind of picked the lock. It’s what Indiana Jones would have done, isn’t it?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “At least we don’t have to worry about getting permission from the Park Service.”

Savich said, “I bet it wouldn’t have been a problem. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Maitland has a golf crony who’s a higher-up in the Park Service.” He shot a look at Ruth, thought of how close she’d come to death. “You’re not going to be out of my sight in that cave, Ruth.”

Ruth looked pleased about that. She said, “Oh yeah, Sheriff, Mr. Maitland has four boys.”

Dix crossed himself.

“Oh dear,” Ruth said, “I’ve got to cancel all my credit cards. I left my backpack and my wallet in my car.”

 

RUTH SAID, “OKAY, guys, we won’t have any stretches of nice electrical lights the Park Service provides for their caves, and there won’t be any well-marked paths. You’ve got backup flashlights in your belts, but right now we’ll only need our head lamps.”

The ceiling was high enough for a while so they could walk upright. With Ruth in the lead, they took several steps around the first corner, a couple of steps down some jagged rocks, and stopped for a moment in complete darkness, except for the light from their head lamps. The cave was eerily quiet, their breaths the only sounds they heard.

“Take a look at the cave formations here,” Ruth said, pointing to a sweep of spectacular draperies, and then panning her head lamp toward a towering stalagmite. “Don’t touch anything, and try not to bump into any of these formations. They’re really fragile. Stay close.”

Since they didn’t need lug soles in Winkel’s Cave, they wore hiking boots. Still, each of them slipped a couple of times, but not badly. “Coming up on the left is a nice drop-off, maybe ten feet down, so stay in my footpath. The map was real specific about this, so maybe one of them took a header here. See that slab of limestone that looks like a commode?” All their head lamps swung to the right. “It’s distinctive, so they drew it on the map. We’re headed in the right direction, I’m sure of it. Okay, all of us except maybe Sherlock will have to bend down some starting soon, and then we veer slightly to the left for another ten feet or so. Sherlock, your head should clear okay. It’s narrower, too, but don’t worry, it’ll widen out again.”

“It’s so dark,” Sherlock whispered. Her voice echoed back to her like a hollow reed. “It’s like we’re the only people in the world.”

“We are, in this world,” Dix said. “I’ve never particularly liked caves.”

“Thank goodness Winkel’s Cave isn’t at all hairy, at least where we’re going,” Ruth said. “Like I said, you’re not even going to get your feet wet. Mr. Weaver told me there’s a stream, but it’s in a lower passage, some twenty-five feet down. He said he’d heard it but never seen it. I, for one, wouldn’t want to get lost down there.” Her laugh echoed through the huge vault they were walking through. “If you want to freak out, I’ll show you a copy of
American Caving Accidents
—people have fallen into pits, got tangled up in ropes, died of hypothermia from crawling in muddy water, even drowned. Now that I’ve scared you, caving isn’t dangerous if you know what you’re doing. Scrapes or bruises or sprains, that’s usually the worst of it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dix said, “you’ve shown how careful you are in unexplored sections of unfamiliar caves around here. I’d call that pretty dangerous.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Ruth said. “Okay, we’ve got about twenty more feet to go before we crawl a bit to the right through a passageway that leads to pretty near where I think I ended up.”

Dix cursed.

Savich said sharply as he swung his head lamp around, “What is it?”

“Stumbled on one of Ruth’s loose rocks. It’s okay. I have a little trouble with all this darkness.”

“We’ve got an overhang coming up; lower your heads, guys.” The men nearly doubled over.

“Another ten feet or so and it’ll get bigger again and we’ll be able to stand up.” But after five more steps, Ruth stopped cold. “Hello, what’s this?”

They moved up to huddle around her, training their head lamps straight ahead.

A huge pile of debris blocked the low passage, chunks of limestone and dolomite, dirt and rocks.

Ruth said slowly, “This isn’t just a cave-in, it’s the result of a blast. Look at how far some of these rocks were thrown.”

Dix made his way to the heaping pile, tested it with his hands. He pulled out a couple of rocks, knelt down, and pressed against it with his shoulder. “It feels solid. I don’t think we’re going to get through here at all, not without some heavy equipment.” Still, he and Savich put muscle into it.

“You’re right, it’s solid,” Savich said.

For several moments, they could think of nothing to do but stare at the obstacle in their path. Dix said, “I guess someone’s pretty serious about keeping you out of here, Ruth. They must have blown it at night when no one was around.”

Dix looked back at them, and thought they all looked like rejects from a B movie, with gas masks attached to their belts, staring at the huge pile of rock in front of them. “You know,” Dix said, “maybe I’ve got a better idea than bringing in bulldozers, not that that’s even possible. My father-in-law, Chappy Holcombe. He grew up here, used to tell me he knew the caves in this area, said he’s explored most of them. He may know another way through here, another way in other than the main entrance.”

“You’re right, no way to get any big equipment in here to dig through this mess,” Savich said.

Sherlock said, “I say we go talk to Dix’s father-in-law. If he knows a back way into the cave, that would make things a lot easier.”

Ruth said, “Sounds like a good idea to me. Let’s go see him. Oh, and we’ve got to pick up more catsup. Rafe said we pigged it all down last night with the rest of the stew.”

“Rafe likes catsup on his scrambled eggs,” Dix said. “He had to do without this morning. Yeah, let’s go. I think we’d all feel better getting out of here for a while, anyway.”

“Let’s do it then,” Savich said, “before I get a permanent bend in my back.”

 

 

 

NEARLY AN HOUR later, on the opposite side of Maestro, Dix pulled his Range Rover through massive iron gates, impressively scrolled with the word
Tara.
They drove a quarter of a mile on a well-graveled road with stone fences running alongside, lined with oaks and maples, snow piled high on either side. They climbed steadily until Ruth saw what must have been the biggest house within fifty miles. It resembled a Southern plantation, a huge expanse of white with Doric columns lining the front.

“Some spread,” Ruth said. “How old is Tara?”

Dix turned into the circular driveway large enough to park twenty vehicles. “Chappy built it in the late fifties for his bride, Miss Angela Hastings Brinkman of the New Or-leans Brinkmans. He had the architect copy the descriptions of Tara from
Gone With the Wind.
”

Sherlock asked, “It’s obvious he’s got money. How’d he make it all, Sheriff?”

As they walked up the wide set of six deep-set stairs, Dix answered, “He learned banking at his daddy’s knee, he told me when I first met him. He owns a privately held bank, Holcombe First Independent, with a dozen branches in the area. He and his wife, Angela, had two children, my wife, Christie, and a boy, Anthony. Tony and his wife, Cynthia, live here with Chappy. Angela died when Christie was ten, of what I don’t remember.”

Sherlock asked, “Is Chappy into any other kinds of businesses?”

Cops, Dix thought, they had to know everything. He grinned at her vivid face framed by a head of curly red hair.

“He’s done some real estate development in Virginia, Washington, D.C., and Maryland. Nothing big or splashy here in the sticks.”

Dix hit the bell and they waited about half a minute before one of the mammoth oak front doors swung inward.

“Hi, Chappy. Where’s Bertram?” Dix asked.

“Damned butler’s got a bug in his gut, was puking up all over himself, so I sent him to stay with his doctor sister in Belleville.

“And who are these people, Dix? Oh, are you the young lady Brewster found in Dix’s woods? You’re the talk of the town.” At Ruth’s nod, he put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You and Dix hooking up like that—and that wild Saturday-night truck chase with Dix and his deputies hanging out the windows of the cruiser like Dirty Harry; it’s the only thing folks are talking about in town. I guess that makes you celebrities, Dix. How does it feel?”

“Chappy,” Dix said pleasantly, “let me introduce you to FBI Special Agent Ruth Warnecki.”

“Yeah, so I heard, Miss Warnecki. What a kick to meet a female FBI agent.”

Ruth stuck out her hand to the old man still standing in the doorway in front of her. “Yes, a kick is a good way to describe it.” She pumped his hand.

“Chappy Holcombe, at your service, ma’am. What do you think of my grandboys?”

“Well, I’m wearing Rob’s sweatshirt, jeans, and coat, and Rafe’s socks. I’d say that at this point in my life they’re pretty indispensable to me.”

Chappy showed lovely white teeth when he grinned at her. “You know, Agent, you have the look of my little sister, Lizzie. It was sad though. Died of leukemia when she was fifteen.” He looked at Savich and Sherlock. “And who are these folks?”

After the introductions, Chappy stepped back and waved them into an immense entrance hall covered in twelve-inch black-and-white marble squares that gleamed even in the dull winter light. Because he’d kept them all standing in the open doorway for five minutes, it was ten degrees colder in the house than it should have been. They watched him push the great door closed.

“Three FBI agents in my house all at once,” he said as he waved them into the living room, which was, surprisingly, very cozy. It was filled with family photographs, many of them going back to the turn of the twentieth century. “We get some of Dix’s deputies visiting from time to time, but this is a first.”