Hemlock Bay
Page 80
Marilyn leaned close and took Virginia’s hand. “You won’t let him take me, will you, Agent Cosgrove?”
“No, Marilyn, I won’t even let him get close to you.” She said to Savich, “You can count on me. I’ll guard her with my life.”
It was seven o’clock in the evening, just an hour later. Since it was fall, the sun had set much earlier, and it was dark now, the sky filling with stars and a half-moon. It was beautiful and warm. The cicadas and the coquis were playing a symphony if anyone was inclined to listen.
The airport looked fairly normal except it was probably a bit too crowded for this time of day, something Savich hoped Tammy Tuttle wouldn’t realize. But he knew she would notice because the local cops looked jumpy, too ill at ease for her not to notice. Or for Timmy to notice. Or whichever one of them showed.
Savich drew a deep breath as he watched the crowd. He said, “Timmy is close, Sherlock, that’s what Marilyn said. She said she could feel him. That was an hour ago. I think she’s even more scared than I am. She also firmly believes—no doubt at all in her mind—that Tammy can change into a guy at will, into this Timmy.”
Sherlock said, “If a Timmy shows up, then I’ll check us both into Bellevue.”
“You got that right.”
There weren’t that many tourists in the airport now, real tourists at least. The major flights from the States had arrived, passengers dispersed, and just a few island-to-island flights were going out in the evening. This was both good and bad. There was less cover, but also less chance that a civilian would be harmed.
When it happened, it was so quick that no one had a chance to stop it. A short, rangy man, pale as death itself, with close-cropped black hair, except for some curls on top of his head, seemed suddenly to simply appear behind Agent Virginia Cosgrove. He said against her ear, “Just move, sweetie, make any movement at all to alert all the Feds hanging around here and I’ll slice your throat from ear to ear. What’ll be fun is that you’ll live long enough to see your blood gush out in a bright red fountain.”
Virginia heard Marilyn whimper. How had he gotten behind her? Why hadn’t someone alerted her? Why hadn’t someone seen him? Yes, it sounded like a man, like this Timmy Tuttle Marilyn had talked about. What was going on here? She had to be calm, wait for her chance. She slowly nodded. “I won’t make a move. I won’t do anything.”
“Good,” the man said and sliced her throat. Blood gushed out. Virginia had only a brief moment to cry out, but even then it wasn’t a cry, it was only a low, blurred gurgling sound.
He turned to Marilyn, smiled, and said, “Let’s go, baby. I’ve missed my little darlin’. You ready, baby?”
Marilyn whispered, “Yes, Timmy, I’m ready.”
He took her hand in his bloody one, and with his other hand, he raised the knife to her throat. At that moment, Savich, who’d been in low conversation with Vinny Arbus, saw the blood spurting out of Virginia Cosgrove’s neck. He’d been looking at her just a moment before. How was it possible? Then he saw a guy dragging Marilyn with him, a knife at her throat. A dozen other agents and at least a dozen civilians saw Virginia fall, her blood splattering everywhere, and saw a pale-as-death man dragging Marilyn Warluski.
All hell broke loose. It was pandemonium, people screaming, running, frozen in terror, or dropping to the floor and folding their arms over their heads. But what was the most potent, what everyone would remember with stark clarity, was the smell of blood. It filled the air, filled their lungs.
It was a hostage situation, but it wasn’t a bystander who was the hostage. It was Marilyn Warluski.
Savich spotted the man, finally free of screaming civilians, and he’d recognize that face anywhere. It was Tammy Tuttle’s face—only it wasn’t quite. No, not possible. But Savich would go to his grave swearing that it was a man with the knife held to Marilyn’s throat, and he had two arms, that man, because Savich saw two hands with his own eyes. It had to be someone else, not Tammy Tuttle dressed up like a man. Someone who looked enough like Tammy to fool him. But how had that crazy-looking man gotten so close to Virginia and Marilyn so quickly, and no one had even noticed? Suddenly nothing made sense.
Agents grabbed tourists who were still standing and pushed them to the floor, clearing the way to get to the man and his hostage.
A local police officer, a very young man with a mustache, closed with them first. He shouted at the man to stop and fired a warning shot in the air.
The man calmly turned in the officer’s direction, pulled a SIG Sauer from his pocket so fast it was a blur, and shot him in the forehead. Then he turned around and it seemed he saw Savich, who was at least fifty feet from him. He yelled, “Hey, it’s me, Timmy Tuttle! Hell-ooooo, everyone!”
“No, Marilyn, I won’t even let him get close to you.” She said to Savich, “You can count on me. I’ll guard her with my life.”
It was seven o’clock in the evening, just an hour later. Since it was fall, the sun had set much earlier, and it was dark now, the sky filling with stars and a half-moon. It was beautiful and warm. The cicadas and the coquis were playing a symphony if anyone was inclined to listen.
The airport looked fairly normal except it was probably a bit too crowded for this time of day, something Savich hoped Tammy Tuttle wouldn’t realize. But he knew she would notice because the local cops looked jumpy, too ill at ease for her not to notice. Or for Timmy to notice. Or whichever one of them showed.
Savich drew a deep breath as he watched the crowd. He said, “Timmy is close, Sherlock, that’s what Marilyn said. She said she could feel him. That was an hour ago. I think she’s even more scared than I am. She also firmly believes—no doubt at all in her mind—that Tammy can change into a guy at will, into this Timmy.”
Sherlock said, “If a Timmy shows up, then I’ll check us both into Bellevue.”
“You got that right.”
There weren’t that many tourists in the airport now, real tourists at least. The major flights from the States had arrived, passengers dispersed, and just a few island-to-island flights were going out in the evening. This was both good and bad. There was less cover, but also less chance that a civilian would be harmed.
When it happened, it was so quick that no one had a chance to stop it. A short, rangy man, pale as death itself, with close-cropped black hair, except for some curls on top of his head, seemed suddenly to simply appear behind Agent Virginia Cosgrove. He said against her ear, “Just move, sweetie, make any movement at all to alert all the Feds hanging around here and I’ll slice your throat from ear to ear. What’ll be fun is that you’ll live long enough to see your blood gush out in a bright red fountain.”
Virginia heard Marilyn whimper. How had he gotten behind her? Why hadn’t someone alerted her? Why hadn’t someone seen him? Yes, it sounded like a man, like this Timmy Tuttle Marilyn had talked about. What was going on here? She had to be calm, wait for her chance. She slowly nodded. “I won’t make a move. I won’t do anything.”
“Good,” the man said and sliced her throat. Blood gushed out. Virginia had only a brief moment to cry out, but even then it wasn’t a cry, it was only a low, blurred gurgling sound.
He turned to Marilyn, smiled, and said, “Let’s go, baby. I’ve missed my little darlin’. You ready, baby?”
Marilyn whispered, “Yes, Timmy, I’m ready.”
He took her hand in his bloody one, and with his other hand, he raised the knife to her throat. At that moment, Savich, who’d been in low conversation with Vinny Arbus, saw the blood spurting out of Virginia Cosgrove’s neck. He’d been looking at her just a moment before. How was it possible? Then he saw a guy dragging Marilyn with him, a knife at her throat. A dozen other agents and at least a dozen civilians saw Virginia fall, her blood splattering everywhere, and saw a pale-as-death man dragging Marilyn Warluski.
All hell broke loose. It was pandemonium, people screaming, running, frozen in terror, or dropping to the floor and folding their arms over their heads. But what was the most potent, what everyone would remember with stark clarity, was the smell of blood. It filled the air, filled their lungs.
It was a hostage situation, but it wasn’t a bystander who was the hostage. It was Marilyn Warluski.
Savich spotted the man, finally free of screaming civilians, and he’d recognize that face anywhere. It was Tammy Tuttle’s face—only it wasn’t quite. No, not possible. But Savich would go to his grave swearing that it was a man with the knife held to Marilyn’s throat, and he had two arms, that man, because Savich saw two hands with his own eyes. It had to be someone else, not Tammy Tuttle dressed up like a man. Someone who looked enough like Tammy to fool him. But how had that crazy-looking man gotten so close to Virginia and Marilyn so quickly, and no one had even noticed? Suddenly nothing made sense.
Agents grabbed tourists who were still standing and pushed them to the floor, clearing the way to get to the man and his hostage.
A local police officer, a very young man with a mustache, closed with them first. He shouted at the man to stop and fired a warning shot in the air.
The man calmly turned in the officer’s direction, pulled a SIG Sauer from his pocket so fast it was a blur, and shot him in the forehead. Then he turned around and it seemed he saw Savich, who was at least fifty feet from him. He yelled, “Hey, it’s me, Timmy Tuttle! Hell-ooooo, everyone!”
