Chief Gerber had listened intently, listened to every inflection, then made a decision. “Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be inclined to let a hot dog who drives up in a red Porsche anywhere close to that house.” He fell silent. Then he slowly nodded. “Guess these circumstances aren’t all that normal though. Joe, give Agent Savich the bullhorn, he’ll need it. Duncan, get Agent Savich a Kevlar vest. Keep your traps shut, I’ll take responsibility.” He studied Savich’s face. “You’re really sure about this?”
“As sure as I can be about anything.”
“I recognize you now. You’re the FBI guy heading the murder case at the Supreme Court, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Officer Duncan handed Savich a vest. Savich stripped off his leather jacket, peeled off his leather gloves, and tossed them to Sherlock. He pulled on the vest over his shirt. When he put on his leather jacket, he zipped it over his belt holster. He said low to Sherlock, taking her hands in his, “Another day in Paradise, right, sweetheart? Pray a little.”
She wanted to wrap her arms around him and not let him go. She didn’t want him to step anywhere near that harmless-looking house with a gun-wielding maniac inside. She said, “I will pray, you can count on that.” Her mouth was dry with fear. She swallowed, but her voice still came out scratchy and hoarse. “Take care, Dillon.” She stepped back. She felt someone against her back, felt a man’s hand on her arm. It was Ben, with Callie beside him.
Savich took the bullhorn from Joe Gaines, and began his trek to the driveway. A large oak tree stood tall just off center in the front yard. He saw a basketball hoop set up over the double garage doors. The net was ripped, showing lots of use. There were a couple of girls’ bikes leaning against the closed left garage door. He walked past dormant rosebushes lining the front of the house. The curtains were drawn over the single large front picture window. He was aware of the low murmur of cop voices behind him, and farther away, the worried and excited conversation of the neighbors. He wondered if there would be another shot and he’d be dead before he hit the ground.
He stopped just before he stepped off the driveway onto the sidewalk that led to the narrow front porch. He raised the bullhorn. “Martin, Austin—my name is Dillon Savich. I’m an FBI agent. I know your mother. It’s because of her that I’m here. She’s really worried about you. If you talk to me I can tell you all about it.”
Dead silence.
“Your mother, Samantha Barrister, is worried about you, Austin. Let me come in and tell you what she said to me.”
Savich didn’t move, just held the bullhorn loosely at his side.
There was movement inside the house, then a woman’s low voice. The wife was alive, thank God.
Savich stood still as a stone, the cold seeping through his boots and gloves. He finally saw the front door crack open, saw a flicker of movement, and knew it was Martin Thornton—Austin Douglas Barrister—standing close behind the partially open doorway, out of the line of fire from the police at the curb.
He didn’t say another word, just waited.
“You’re a liar,” Austin said. “My mom’s been dead for thirty years. You hear me? Someone killed her! So who the hell are you? Why are you lying to me like this?”
The voice was low and scared, and there was something else, a loss of control, close to the surface. But he’d asked a question, and that was positive.
“I’m not lying, Austin,” Savich said, and took another step up the short sidewalk.
“My name’s Martin. Austin, that’s someone else. Don’t you move!”
“All right, I won’t. But I’m not lying to you.”
“Sure you are. Who told you about my mother?”
“Let me come closer and I’ll tell you all about it.”
A moment of silence, then, “All right, you can come up on the porch, but no closer.”
Savich walked up the sidewalk, slow and easy, stepped up onto the porch and waited.
“Talk.”
“I saw your mother a week ago Friday night, near Blessed Creek. I was driving to the cabin where my family and I were staying for the weekend when I had a blowout. I’d just finished changing the tire when a hysterical young woman ran out in front of my car, claiming someone was trying to kill her, and I had to take her home, right away. I couldn’t get much else out of her. I followed her directions, and ended up at a huge house on top of a knoll. That was your old home, Aus—Martin. I had her sit on the sofa in the living room as I searched the house, but I didn’t find anyone. When I went back to where I’d left your mom in the living room, she was gone.”
Martin Thornton yelled, “She’s dead, do you hear me? Dead for thirty years. You made this up, mister. Did my father send you? No, there’s no way he could have found me.”
Savich continued, keeping his voice calm. “I dreamed about Samantha the very next night after I was called back to Washington on an emergency. And again this past week. She mentioned you, her son, her precious boy. Since we couldn’t locate you, we put out an alert, and Chief Gerber called us when you shouted out your real name just a little while ago. I’m not lying, Martin. Why would I?”
Savich knew that the cops couldn’t hear either of them.
Martin Thornton’s voice was hesitant. “I didn’t mean to call out that other name, it just came out of my mouth. What are you saying? There’s no such thing as ghosts. My mom couldn’t come back—how could she?”
“I don’t know, but she did come to me, then she was in my dreams. Martin, I’m here to help you, but I can’t until I know what’s changed in your life, what’s happened to you to make you do this. Let me come inside. I’m not about to hurt you or your family. I’m here for you, but mainly I’m here for your mother, Samantha, and not as an FBI agent.”
The door eased open and a man appeared in profile. Then he turned to face him. Savich knew Austin Douglas Barrister was only a couple of years older than he, about thirty-seven, but he appeared older. He had thinning black hair, a very pale face, and his mother’s incredibly beautiful eyes. But his pupils were dilated, huge and black with fear, just as hers had been. He was thin, a bit stoop-shouldered, and wore dark brown corduroy trousers, sneakers, and a white shirt beneath a dark brown V-neck sweater. He heard his wife Janet say, “Let him in, Martin. I believe him. It sounds too crazy not to be true. Come, we’ll work this out. Let him in.”
Savich saw that Martin was holding a shotgun at his side, a weapon that could blow a hole through a man, Kevlar vest or not.
Martin slowly nodded. He looked out toward all the cops, shrank back a bit. “All right, you can come in, but I still think you’re nuts.” Then he laughed. “I said you’re nuts? That makes both of us nuts. What did you say your name is?”
“Dillon Savich.”
“Did the cops give you a gun?”
“I already told you I’m an FBI agent. Of course I have a gun. It’s in the holster at my belt. Would you like me to drop it out here?”
Martin Thornton stared at him, the shotgun held tight in his right hand. Savich was close enough to see that it was an SKB model 785, a beautiful weapon, finely tooled with an automatic ejector, and with a silver nitrite finish. It was expensive, and it was deadly.
Martin Thornton said slowly, “No, leave it holstered. Come on in.”
“Would you like to send Janet and the girls out?”
Suddenly a woman was standing at Martin’s right shoulder. “No, I don’t want to leave Martin. I’m fine right here. The girls are locked in a bedroom. They’re all right too.” She drew a deep breath. “This has happened twice before. We got through it. Come in, Agent Savich.”