Hemlock Bay
Page 92
A psychopathic killer who is an illusionist, possibly a telepath. He had never seen anything like it, and he hoped he never would again.
He’d just finished telling all the agents about the Ghouls, detailing what Marilyn had told him and what he himself had seen. If they didn’t believe him, they were cool enough to keep it to themselves.
One agent, a friend of Virginia Cosgrove’s, didn’t doubt a single word. As they were debarking from the jet in Bar Harbor, she said, “Virginia told me some things Marilyn Warluski had told her. It was terrifying, Mr. Savich.”
“Just Savich, Ms. Rodriguez. I’m very sorry about Agent Cosgrove.”
“We all are, sir.” Then she managed a grin. “Just Lois, Savich.”
“You got it.”
“The thing is, guys,” he said to all of them, “if you see her or him again”—he waved the artist’s drawing under all their noses—“don’t play any games. Don’t even think about trying to take her alive. Don’t trust anything you see happen, fire without hesitation, and shoot to kill. Now, I’m going to the photo shop, make sure there’s no confusion. Then we’ll get together at the local police department and get everything set up.”
He wondered if the Ghouls would be with her, with Tammy as their head acolyte, their priestess of death.
He was becoming melodramatic. All he really knew as he walked into the photo shop, Hamlet’s Pics, on Wescott Avenue, was that he was glad to his soul that Sherlock wasn’t here, that she was at home, safe with Sean.
He spoke to the photo shop employee, Teddi Tyler—spelled with an “i” he was told—to verify what he’d said to the local police. Teddi repeated that the woman whose photo Savich was showing him had indeed been in the shop, just yesterday, late afternoon. He’d called the police right away.
“What did she want?”
“She had some film she wanted developed.”
Savich felt his heart pound, deep and slow, and it was all he could do to remain calm and smooth. They were so close now. “Did you develop the film, Mr. Tyler?”
“Yes, sir, Agent Savich. The police told me to go ahead and develop it and hold the photos for the FBI.”
“When did she say she wanted to pick the photos up?”
“This afternoon, at two o’clock. I told her that would be just fine.”
“Did she look like she was in good health, Mr. Tyler?”
“She was sort of pale, but looked good other than that. It was pretty cold yesterday so she was all bundled up in a thick coat, a big scarf around her neck and a wool ski cap, but I still recognized her, no problem.”
“Did you make any comment to her about how she looked familiar?”
“Oh, no, Agent Savich. I was really cool.”
Yeah, I bet, Savich thought, praying that he’d been cool enough not to alert Tammy that he was on to her. One thing—Teddi Tyler was still alive, and that meant Tammy hadn’t felt threatened, he hoped. Everything he’d told Savich so far was exactly what he’d told the local cops.
“I want you to think carefully now, Mr. Tyler. When she handed you the film, which hand did she use?”
Teddi frowned, furrowing his forehead into three deep lines. “Her left hand,” he said at last. “Yes, it was her left hand. She had her purse on a long strap hanging over her left shoulder. It was kind of clumsy.”
“Did you ever see her right hand?”
Again Teddi went into a big frown. “I’m sorry, Agent Savich,” he said finally, shaking his head, “I just don’t remember. All I’m sure about is that she stayed all bundled up—again no surprise, since it was so cold.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tyler. Now, a special agent will take your place behind the counter. Agent Briggs will be in soon and you can go over procedures with him.” Savich raised his hand, seeing that Teddi Tyler wanted to argue. “There’s no way you are going to face this woman again, Mr. Tyler. She’s very dangerous, even to us. Now, show me those photos.”
Savich took the photo envelope from Teddi and moved away from the counter to the glass front windows. The sun was shining brightly for a November day. It didn’t look like it was forty degrees outside. He slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the glossy 4x6 photos. There were only six of them.
He looked at one after the other, and then looked again. He didn’t understand. All of them were beach shots, undoubtedly taken in the Caribbean. Two were taken in the early morning, two when the sun was high, and two at sunset. None of them was very well done—well, that made sense since she had only one arm—but what was the point? All beach shots, no people in any of them. What was this about?
He’d just finished telling all the agents about the Ghouls, detailing what Marilyn had told him and what he himself had seen. If they didn’t believe him, they were cool enough to keep it to themselves.
One agent, a friend of Virginia Cosgrove’s, didn’t doubt a single word. As they were debarking from the jet in Bar Harbor, she said, “Virginia told me some things Marilyn Warluski had told her. It was terrifying, Mr. Savich.”
“Just Savich, Ms. Rodriguez. I’m very sorry about Agent Cosgrove.”
“We all are, sir.” Then she managed a grin. “Just Lois, Savich.”
“You got it.”
“The thing is, guys,” he said to all of them, “if you see her or him again”—he waved the artist’s drawing under all their noses—“don’t play any games. Don’t even think about trying to take her alive. Don’t trust anything you see happen, fire without hesitation, and shoot to kill. Now, I’m going to the photo shop, make sure there’s no confusion. Then we’ll get together at the local police department and get everything set up.”
He wondered if the Ghouls would be with her, with Tammy as their head acolyte, their priestess of death.
He was becoming melodramatic. All he really knew as he walked into the photo shop, Hamlet’s Pics, on Wescott Avenue, was that he was glad to his soul that Sherlock wasn’t here, that she was at home, safe with Sean.
He spoke to the photo shop employee, Teddi Tyler—spelled with an “i” he was told—to verify what he’d said to the local police. Teddi repeated that the woman whose photo Savich was showing him had indeed been in the shop, just yesterday, late afternoon. He’d called the police right away.
“What did she want?”
“She had some film she wanted developed.”
Savich felt his heart pound, deep and slow, and it was all he could do to remain calm and smooth. They were so close now. “Did you develop the film, Mr. Tyler?”
“Yes, sir, Agent Savich. The police told me to go ahead and develop it and hold the photos for the FBI.”
“When did she say she wanted to pick the photos up?”
“This afternoon, at two o’clock. I told her that would be just fine.”
“Did she look like she was in good health, Mr. Tyler?”
“She was sort of pale, but looked good other than that. It was pretty cold yesterday so she was all bundled up in a thick coat, a big scarf around her neck and a wool ski cap, but I still recognized her, no problem.”
“Did you make any comment to her about how she looked familiar?”
“Oh, no, Agent Savich. I was really cool.”
Yeah, I bet, Savich thought, praying that he’d been cool enough not to alert Tammy that he was on to her. One thing—Teddi Tyler was still alive, and that meant Tammy hadn’t felt threatened, he hoped. Everything he’d told Savich so far was exactly what he’d told the local cops.
“I want you to think carefully now, Mr. Tyler. When she handed you the film, which hand did she use?”
Teddi frowned, furrowing his forehead into three deep lines. “Her left hand,” he said at last. “Yes, it was her left hand. She had her purse on a long strap hanging over her left shoulder. It was kind of clumsy.”
“Did you ever see her right hand?”
Again Teddi went into a big frown. “I’m sorry, Agent Savich,” he said finally, shaking his head, “I just don’t remember. All I’m sure about is that she stayed all bundled up—again no surprise, since it was so cold.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tyler. Now, a special agent will take your place behind the counter. Agent Briggs will be in soon and you can go over procedures with him.” Savich raised his hand, seeing that Teddi Tyler wanted to argue. “There’s no way you are going to face this woman again, Mr. Tyler. She’s very dangerous, even to us. Now, show me those photos.”
Savich took the photo envelope from Teddi and moved away from the counter to the glass front windows. The sun was shining brightly for a November day. It didn’t look like it was forty degrees outside. He slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the glossy 4x6 photos. There were only six of them.
He looked at one after the other, and then looked again. He didn’t understand. All of them were beach shots, undoubtedly taken in the Caribbean. Two were taken in the early morning, two when the sun was high, and two at sunset. None of them was very well done—well, that made sense since she had only one arm—but what was the point? All beach shots, no people in any of them. What was this about?
