Whiplash (27 page)

She screeched into the large driveway. The house was dark, completely and utterly dark, not a single light on inside.

The alarm system wasn't on. Sherlock was breathing fast and hard, praying for all she was worth. Savich turned the doorknob. It was open.

He swung the door back, smoothly and silently. He went in high, Sherlock low, something they'd done often, both in and out of Quantico, their movements practiced and fast.

Savich started to flip on a light switch then stopped cold when he heard a scratching noise off to his right.

He slipped his penlight out of his jacket pocket. Together they moved silently toward the living room, the beam from the penlight sweeping back and forth in front of them. After six steps, they stopped, listened.

Nothing now, only dead silence. Savich nodded. Sherlock yelled, "Jane Ann! Where are you?"

Nothing. Then they heard a whimper, a human being's whimper, coming from up the stairs.

They ran up the wide staircase, crouched over nearly double.

Someone fired at them from the landing, one shot, then a fusillade from an automatic weapon. Savich slammed Sherlock down onto the stairs and came down on top of her, covering her body as best he could. Bullets riddled the plaster on the wall two feet above his head, broke it apart and splattered it on the back of his head.

A painting fell, one sharp edge striking the stairs as it plunged down. It slammed the bottom stair and struck the tiles, sliding across the entrance hall.

There was another shot, this one from off to the right. He reared back and fired his SIG blindly toward the shooter.

Sherlock managed to get her arm free. When the next shot nicked the lovely mahogany stair railing, both of them fired toward the direction of the sound.

There was a shuffling sound, not like they'd shot someone, but something else, like someone was moving fast. Yes, he was running down the hall.

Savich was up in an instant, grabbed Sherlock's arm, and pulled her up. He fiddled with the penlight and it flickered on again, carving a narrow beam through the inky black. He whispered against her ear, "We've got to take this real slow. We'll be blind up ahead, and whoever it is could be circling back, waiting for us to come up."

They spread out across the stairs, each to one side. Crouching, they made their way to the top.

They stopped and listened. There were no more running footsteps. Whoever it was, was long gone.

"Which way to the master bedroom?"

Sherlock shook her head. "Let's go right."

They didn't know which room was Jane Ann Royal's, which rooms were her children's.

Sherlock nearly froze.
Her two boys.
What if the killer had murdered the boys? Please no, not the children.

Savich opened each door as they came to it. The first was a small sitting room with a harp sitting next to the window. Jane Ann played the harp?

The next was a bedroom that obviously belonged to a preadolescent boy-two posters on the wall of David Beckham, a soccer ball rolled into the corner, a pair of filthy sneakers on the floor. No occupant, thank God. She opened the closet door and nearly got buried when a pile of clothes poured out. She looked inside the clothes. There was no body. She closed her eyes and offered up a prayer.

Sherlock thought she'd lose it when they eased open the second door, another bedroom, and there was something on or in the bed, something substantial, something that didn't move. Was it was one of the boys, dead? Sherlock ran to the bed and saw to her blessed relief that it was a tangled pile of clothes. A desk filled most of the space along the wall. No soccer theme in this room but an incredible array of computer equipment, and a big stack of comic books. She opened the closet door. There was no child, only a collection of shoes and sneakers and a couple of bats and mitts.

"Jane Ann did send the boys away, thank God."

"Very smart of her," Savich said. "Okay, let's get to her bedroom."

There was another door that opened into a small office with a single closet, and Savich opened it. Copy paper, envelopes, supplies. No bodies.

The room at the end of the hall had white double doors. They were closed. Savich didn't have a good feeling about this. He turned the doorknob, pushed lightly. The door went silently inward.

Sherlock called, "Jane Ann? Are you in here?"

There was dead silence.

"Jane Ann? Everything is all right now. You can come out."

They heard a gulping sound, then a sob. "Is that you, Agent Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock ran toward her voice. The closet door slowly opened. Savich turned on the overhead light.

Jane Ann Royal was sitting on the floor of the closet, a thick winter coat pulled around her, and she was as pale as death. She held a gun in her hand. Her hand was shaking so badly Sherlock quickly took it from her.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am-" She shuddered, and lowered her head to her hands and began rocking.

Savich asked, his voice calm and low, "Where are the boys?"

She started at the sound of the man's voice. Sherlock said, "It's all right, this is Agent Savich."

Jane Ann Royal peered up at him through terrified eyes. "I sent them to my sister in Philadelphia, yesterday. They're safe."

"You're all right, Jane Ann. Take a deep breath and tell us what happened."

"It-it's hard. I've never been so scared in my life."

"I know, but it's okay now. You've got to tell us what happened."

Jane Ann Royal sucked in air, breathed, and managed to smooth herself out. "After I hung up with you, I got Caskie's gun out of the bedside table and I hid here in the closet, just like you told me to. I kept the door open a crack so I could see and hear if someone came into the bedroom. I heard some men, I don't know how many, but I heard them come up the stairs, real slow, like they wanted to be quiet. Then they were in the hallway and I thought they were coming to kill me." Her voice broke as she began to wheeze.

Sherlock gently stroked her arm, and waited. Finally, Jane Ann raised her eyes to Sherlock's face. "Then I didn't hear anything, for maybe two minutes. I started to get up, but I heard someone right outside the bedroom door. I scrunched into a ball and pulled a coat over me. I held out my gun, aimed it straight at the middle of the closet door.

"But no one came in. I heard the men talking, then I heard a single shot. It sounded far away, like it was down at the end of the hall in the laundry room. One of the men yelled, 'I got the bastard!' I didn't know what they were talking about. I was so afraid. I didn't know who'd fired or why-there was no one here but me.

"I heard someone open the bedroom door and I thought I'd die. Someone looked in, I could hear his breathing, but he didn't come into the bedroom. I heard him say, 'Come on, let's get out of here.' And one of them shut the bedroom door again. Then I heard shots, so many shots, then they stopped. I wanted to help you because I knew it had to be you. I had to do something! I ran to the door and opened it a crack. I saw them running down the hall away from me. I guess they went out the window at the end of the hall, where the laundry room is. There's a huge cedar tree out there and they must have climbed down. Then I heard you, but I wasn't sure it was you, I couldn't hear you clearly. I knew you were looking in all the rooms, and I was afraid they'd come back, to see if there was anyone else here and I hid in the closet again. Then you came in, Agent Sherlock, and you called to me." She raised a tear-streaked face. "I know who they killed." She put her face on her drawn-up knees and cried, huge gulping sobs. "Oh God, I know who they killed."

Savich said quietly, "Who do you think they killed, Mrs. Royal?"

"Caskie," she whispered through her tears, "it must be Caskie. He must have come home. He had to be hiding from me, just like you thought he would, Agent Sherlock. I think they killed my boys' father, they killed my husband."

S
avich and Sherlock
found Caskie Royal's body in the huge laundry room at the end of the hall, sprawled on a pile of dirty sheets and towels, shot through the head. The large window over the dryer was open, the white curtains flowing inside, pushed by the night wind.

There was blood everywhere.

Friday at dawn

Bowie said, "Mrs. Royal's Smith and Wesson hasn't been fired. And none of the brass the team found were from a Smith and Wesson."

Sherlock said, "If you'd found her hiding in the closet, seen her terror firsthand, I don't think you'd have bothered checking out her S-and-W." She looked over at Erin, who stood against the side of her rented Taurus, bent forward a bit, probably feeling the burn on her back. She'd parked as close as she could get to the front of the Royal house. She looked shell-shocked. Sherlock said, "I told her not to come, but I'm not surprised she's here." Sherlock paused a moment, saw the blood in Bowie's eyes, and added, "She's amazing. She can't be feeling all that hot."

Erin wasn't feeling much of anything. It was just past dawn, so she could finally see all the people going in and out of the Royal house, beyond the glare of the huge spotlights. The coroner's van was still parked directly in front of the house, but not for much longer-two men were carrying out a large green bag that held Caskie Royal's body.
He's dead,
she thought-just like that-
a living, breathing person is dead.
Just like you could have been, dead and in a green bag, if you hadn't jumped out of your Hummer in time
. Only a matter of seconds, close, too close- She realized she was shaking and forced herself to breathe slowly, in and out. She saw plainclothes agents examining the grounds surrounding the house, looking for footprints, she supposed, and Sherlock speaking to Bowie.

Bowie stared over at her. She could tell from thirty feet that he wasn't happy. Of course she'd awakened when "Jingle Bells" blasted into the silence at three-forty a.m. She'd wanted to leap out of bed and see what was going on, but instead, she held herself still and listened to him search around for his cell phone. She almost shouted to him that he'd left it beneath the sports section of the newspaper. She heard nearly a full verse before he found his cell and "Jingle Bells" abruptly cut off. She heard him talking to Sherlock in a low voice, then heard him moving around, and after a few minutes, she heard the front door close quietly. She swung her legs over the side of her bed, got to her feet, and nearly fell over. She grabbed the bedpost and stood there, hunched over. She swallowed a Vicodin, and that blessed wonder drug finally got her together. She called Sherlock, and when at last she'd felt able to drive safely, she'd carried Georgie to the car, her back cussing at her all the way, and headed for the Royal house.

Bowie stared at her, hands on hips, then trotted over. "You idiot," he said from four feet away in mid-trot. "I can't believe you even managed to get yourself out of bed at dawn and truck over here."

"I didn't truck, I Taurused," and she waved her hand at her rental car, and tried for a smile.

"Don't you try to jolly me out of being mad. Agent Lewis called to tell me you were on your way, and then he had the gall to tell me not to worry, said he and Tucker were right behind you and he'd keep an eye out for any bad guys. He told me not to worry about Georgie either, she was sound asleep."

He reached out his hands to shake her, saw she really wasn't in very good shape, and backed off. To cap it off, she was shivering beneath her black leather jacket. The early morning was cold, the sky filled with gray clouds pressing down signaling rain. He pulled off his own leather jacket and laid it around her shoulders. "No, be quiet. I'll be fine. Okay, Erin, this better be good-what the devil are you doing here? Where'd you stash Georgie?"

"Don't yell at me, you'll wake her up," and Erin nodded over her shoulder.

Naturally, he had to look into the back seat to see his daughter lying on her side, her face against her open palm, two blankets tucked securely around her, covering her to her ears. She was dead to the world. She was a good sleeper, his kid. "I've been wondering how you knew where to come."

She had the nerve to shrug. "No biggie. After you left, I called Sherlock and she told me what happened." She waved her hand toward the big house. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to disturb Georgie, but I had to come, and I knew I couldn't leave her. She never woke up, Bowie, and I worried about that, after last night when she was so upset with us for yelling at each other." She paused a brief moment, tried another smile. "I don't know how you thought of it so fast, but telling her I was an idiot and you were going to make me iron her clothes for her really calmed her fast. That was well done."

He opened his mouth to blast her again, but what came out was, "You wait, Georgie will hold you to it."

"Yeah, she just might." Erin said, looking back toward the house. "What happened here, Bowie, it's unbelievable. Jane Ann's husband, he was alive, you interviewed him, you even knew the minute he ran away at that rest stop. And now he's just-dead, like I almost was.

"I talked with Jane Ann Royal Wednesday with Sherlock, and she was open and smart and sophisticated. She knew what her husband was, and laughed about it, showed off her tennis instructor. All buff and young, she told us, that's how she liked them, but she loved her sons, Bowie, you could tell that right away."