Riptide
Page 74
Savich said as he closed his fingers around Tyler’s arm, “I understand your anger. But all these accusations aren’t going to help anyone, particularly Becca. Believe me, we all know what’s at stake here.”
“You’re damned incompetent bastards,” Tyler yelled even louder, “all of you.” He jerked away from Savich.
“Tyler,” Adam said quietly, “don’t go to Sheriff Gaffney. That would be the worst thing you could do.”
“Why? How much more could things be fucked up?”
“He might kill her,” Adam said. “Don’t tell anyone anything.”
After Tyler McBride was escorted from the house by three agents, Sherlock said, “Why not tell everyone now?”
Adam shoved his hand through his hair. “Dammit, because if some cop happens to see them, then you know our guy would kill her and take off. We can’t take the chance. No, we’ve got to get to Washington, fast.”
“First you’ve got to call Thomas, Adam.”
Adam didn’t want to, he really didn’t.
Savich and Sherlock listened to Adam flail himself on the speakerphone.
There was silence on the other end. Finally, Thomas said, “Get over it, Adam. We’ve been dealt new cards now, we’ll play them. I’m very relieved that Chuck is all right. His wife would roast me alive if he’d been killed. Now, if this is Krimakov, then he at least knows I’m in Washington, probably knows about the condo. I’ll stay here. I’ll be ready for him. Get back here as quickly as you can, Adam. Savich? Can you and Sherlock stick with us?”
“Yes, Thomas.”
“Now, I’ve got to get myself ready for Krimakov. It’s been so many years. Many times I thought he’d finally given it up, but it appears that he’s just been biding his time.”
“He could really be dead,” Sherlock said.
“No,” Thomas said. “Adam, you, Savich, and Sherlock hang around there for a while. Try to get a line on this guy. He’s got to be somewhere. He’s got to be traceable. Find him. Oh, and Adam?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stop beating yourself up. Guilt just slows down your brain. I want that brain of yours sharp. Get it together and find my daughter.”
They finally rang off. Thomas Matlock looked at the phone for a very long time before he slowly eased it back down. Then he leaned his head back against the soft leather of his chair. He closed his eyes to blot out the feeling of helplessness, for just a moment, an instant, but instead, he felt a deep, soul-corroding fear that a man should never have to feel in his damned life. It was fear for his child, and the knowledge that he was helpless to save her.
It was Krimakov, he knew it, deep in his gut, he knew, and they had cremated the body. No, Krimakov wasn’t dead—maybe he’d staged his death, murdered another man who resembled him. He’d somehow found out about Becca and he had begun his reign of terror. There was no doubt at all in Thomas’s mind now. Krimakov, a man who had sworn to cut Thomas’s heart out even if he had to chase Thomas to hell to do it, had his Becca.
He lowered his face in his hands.
20
She was aware of ear-splitting noise—men’s and women’s voices yelling loudly, car tire s screeching, horns blasting, and movement, she could feel the blur of movement everywhere, pounding feet, running fast. She was moving as well, no, she was flying, then she hit hard and the pain ripped through her. She lay on her side, smelling the hot tar of the street, a light overlay of urine, hot and sour, whiffs of food, of too many bodies, feeling the unforgiving cement beneath her. Cement?
People were yelling, coming closer now, and there were men and women shouting, “Stay back! Let us through!”
She tried to open her eyes, but her muscles were too weak, wouldn’t obey her, and the pain was boiling up inside her. She was so very tired, nearly blown under with it. Then she felt a hideously sharp stab of pain somewhere in her body, fierce, unrelenting, and she knew tears were leaking out of her eyes.
“Miss! Can you hear me?”
She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt the sun beating down on her, hot on her bare skin—what bare skin? Her legs were bare, that was it. But he was over her, a shadow blocking the sun.
“Miss? Can you hear me? Are you conscious?”
She opened her eyes then because he sounded so very afraid. “Yes,” she whispered, “I can hear you. I can see you. Not clearly, but I can see you.”
“My God, it’s her! It’s that Matlock woman!”
“You’re damned incompetent bastards,” Tyler yelled even louder, “all of you.” He jerked away from Savich.
“Tyler,” Adam said quietly, “don’t go to Sheriff Gaffney. That would be the worst thing you could do.”
“Why? How much more could things be fucked up?”
“He might kill her,” Adam said. “Don’t tell anyone anything.”
After Tyler McBride was escorted from the house by three agents, Sherlock said, “Why not tell everyone now?”
Adam shoved his hand through his hair. “Dammit, because if some cop happens to see them, then you know our guy would kill her and take off. We can’t take the chance. No, we’ve got to get to Washington, fast.”
“First you’ve got to call Thomas, Adam.”
Adam didn’t want to, he really didn’t.
Savich and Sherlock listened to Adam flail himself on the speakerphone.
There was silence on the other end. Finally, Thomas said, “Get over it, Adam. We’ve been dealt new cards now, we’ll play them. I’m very relieved that Chuck is all right. His wife would roast me alive if he’d been killed. Now, if this is Krimakov, then he at least knows I’m in Washington, probably knows about the condo. I’ll stay here. I’ll be ready for him. Get back here as quickly as you can, Adam. Savich? Can you and Sherlock stick with us?”
“Yes, Thomas.”
“Now, I’ve got to get myself ready for Krimakov. It’s been so many years. Many times I thought he’d finally given it up, but it appears that he’s just been biding his time.”
“He could really be dead,” Sherlock said.
“No,” Thomas said. “Adam, you, Savich, and Sherlock hang around there for a while. Try to get a line on this guy. He’s got to be somewhere. He’s got to be traceable. Find him. Oh, and Adam?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stop beating yourself up. Guilt just slows down your brain. I want that brain of yours sharp. Get it together and find my daughter.”
They finally rang off. Thomas Matlock looked at the phone for a very long time before he slowly eased it back down. Then he leaned his head back against the soft leather of his chair. He closed his eyes to blot out the feeling of helplessness, for just a moment, an instant, but instead, he felt a deep, soul-corroding fear that a man should never have to feel in his damned life. It was fear for his child, and the knowledge that he was helpless to save her.
It was Krimakov, he knew it, deep in his gut, he knew, and they had cremated the body. No, Krimakov wasn’t dead—maybe he’d staged his death, murdered another man who resembled him. He’d somehow found out about Becca and he had begun his reign of terror. There was no doubt at all in Thomas’s mind now. Krimakov, a man who had sworn to cut Thomas’s heart out even if he had to chase Thomas to hell to do it, had his Becca.
He lowered his face in his hands.
20
She was aware of ear-splitting noise—men’s and women’s voices yelling loudly, car tire s screeching, horns blasting, and movement, she could feel the blur of movement everywhere, pounding feet, running fast. She was moving as well, no, she was flying, then she hit hard and the pain ripped through her. She lay on her side, smelling the hot tar of the street, a light overlay of urine, hot and sour, whiffs of food, of too many bodies, feeling the unforgiving cement beneath her. Cement?
People were yelling, coming closer now, and there were men and women shouting, “Stay back! Let us through!”
She tried to open her eyes, but her muscles were too weak, wouldn’t obey her, and the pain was boiling up inside her. She was so very tired, nearly blown under with it. Then she felt a hideously sharp stab of pain somewhere in her body, fierce, unrelenting, and she knew tears were leaking out of her eyes.
“Miss! Can you hear me?”
She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt the sun beating down on her, hot on her bare skin—what bare skin? Her legs were bare, that was it. But he was over her, a shadow blocking the sun.
“Miss? Can you hear me? Are you conscious?”
She opened her eyes then because he sounded so very afraid. “Yes,” she whispered, “I can hear you. I can see you. Not clearly, but I can see you.”
“My God, it’s her! It’s that Matlock woman!”
