“Yeah, he could. If Makepeace blew the bomb exactly when he wanted, that would mean he didn’t want to kill Kathryn Golden or any of the hotel people or cops who found her when he sent them up to her room.”
Dix said, “Okay, he sees us drive up and that spurs him to move. He calls the hotel and lays the bomb threat on them. Let me see if I can find— Hey, wait a second, just get away from me! No—not now—”
There was what sounded like a scuffle, then someone fumbling with the phone. Ruth, a bit out of breath, said, “A couple of paramedics grabbed Dix to wrap a pressure bandage around his arm to stop the bleeding. Okay, I’m going to look for a camera of some kind. Hang on.” Not ten seconds later, she was back on the line. “You nailed it, Dillon. There was a cell phone fastened into the folds of the draperies, the camera aimed right at Kathryn’s chair. When I picked it up, spoke, the line was dead. But Makepeace has been watching us—or listening to us. Why would he wait for us to move away from the chair before he blew it? Why would he care if any of us was killed?”
Savich said, “Maybe he only murders for a purpose. Maybe mass murder isn’t his style. Maybe he knows killing all of you would have brought every law enforcement agency in the world down on him.”
Ruth said, “Or maybe he was hoping Cheney would be the one trying to free Kathryn, and he would have blasted the bomb right away. They’re carrying Kathryn Golden out right now. She’s unconscious.”
“Sounds like you and Dix need to get to the hospital too, see to his wounds. You promise me you’re okay, Ruth?”
“I’d better be. Dix looks like he wants to start a brawl. We’ll call you from the hospital, Dillon, let you know everyone’s status.”
Savich heard Dix yelling at someone in the background. He pulled off at the next exit. “It’s back we go to the city,” he said. “Even though I can’t tell you for certain where Makepeace is, I want to get over to Julia’s house and find those journals. They’re at the center of this thing, Sherlock. I think we’ll find some answers when we find those journals.”
“Are you going to let Julia come with us?”
“It’s a tough call, but you know, Julia knows every nook and cranny in her own house. We need her. Captain Paulette will provide enough people to keep Makepeace away, if he so happens to show up there.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Sherlock said.
CHAPTER 49
At two o’clock that afternoon, Julia, with Savich, Sherlock, and Cheney close behind her, unlocked the front door of her house and stepped in. The large entryway was filled with shadows, empty and silent. She shuddered. “It seems like I’ve been gone years rather than days,” Julia said. “It’s like a stranger’s house.”
Cheney took her hand. “We don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary, Julia.” He frowned at Savich, who raised his hand. “Listen, Cheney, we’ve already discussed this into the ground. We’ve got to find those journals. Both you and Julia said Kathryn Golden put extraordinary emphasis on them. Julia knows this house, knows all its hiding places. They’ve got to be here, so let’s get busy. The sooner we find those journals, the sooner we’re out of here. Julia, you said you already searched your husband’s study, but we’ll start there.”
“I didn’t really search everywhere, simply gathered all his things up.”
“Okay, then you and Cheney go to the study. Cheney knows more about hiding places than a drug dealer. Sherlock and I will start here in the living room.”
When they were alone, Savich walked to the front windows and pulled back the thick draperies. He saw a man across the street dressed in an aloha shirt, trimming a neighbor’s bushes. Another man was mowing a yard. Both were undercover cops.
He joined Sherlock in front of the painting over the mantel. “So that’s Dr. August Ransom,” he said. “His eyes are dark and intense, just like Wallace Tammerlane and Bevlin Wagner.” Were they a necessity, he wondered, for the psychic package? He glanced into a mirror on the wall beside the fireplace, and his own dark intense eyes stared back at him.
“Let’s get to work.”
There weren’t any wall safes behind paintings, there weren’t any safes behind the books that filled the single bookshelf against one wall. Sherlock checked the floorboards—no hollow sounds, nothing under the carpet.
“Well, I say we do the kitchen next,” she said. “I vote for the Sub-Zero freezer.”
Julia and Cheney walked into the living room, Cheney shaking his head. “Nothing. We even moved his big desk aside to check the floorboards. Zilch, nada.”
Julia said, “I’m thinking I should check August’s bedroom next. I did only a quick clean-out. He worked in there as well.” She turned to leave the living room when in that moment there was a very slight creaking of an oak plank overhead.
They all stared upward. Cheney already had his SIG pulled. Savich placed his finger on his lips. “Julia, how would he get in the house without any of the cops outside seeing him?”
She looked perfectly blank, then, “I remember. There are some ancient fire stairs hanging from outside the attic window, bolted to the side of the house. They’re mostly covered with vines and hushes because August thought they were an eyesore, wanted them hidden.”
Cheney said, lowering his voice, “We’re not going to take any chances with Julia. She and I are going to hunker down in the kitchen pantry; it’s probably the safest place in the house. We’ll be as quiet as we can.”
Savich said, “I don’t care what happens, keep Julia safe. Sherlock, you’re with me.”
Once Cheney and Julia had disappeared, Savich and Sherlock walked to the foot of the grand staircase, and stood quietly, listening.
There was not a whisper of a sound.
“Maybe it was only a creak from an old house,” Sherlock whispered.
“Possible.” He motioned her to the other side of the stairs, opposite the door to the living room, beneath the staircase.
Sherlock dropped to her knees, keeping a clear view up the stairs to the second-floor landing. She didn’t have much patience. It drove her nuts to hold herself still and not run up the stairs, listening to her own heartbeat, the thump of her pulse in her throat, wanting to scratch an itch, but not daring to move. They waited, until her feet were numb and her stomach was growling. She looked at Dillon, still motionless as a shadow on a still night. Like her, he was partially hidden behind a newel post, the one Julia’s bullet had blown apart on Saturday night.
Savich was thinking of his father, a man who’d marveled at this ability in his son because he, Buck Savich, had been a live wire, never still, always on the move. Savich looked over at Sherlock. He could practically see wild waves of energy jumping off her. He knew she was well-trained, an excellent shot, and blessed with great reflexes, but he couldn’t help feeling the familiar punch of fear in his gut whenever she was in danger. He doubted it would ever fade. What amazed and pleased him was that she felt the same way about him.
Why wasn’t there another sound? Maybe because there was nothing there. But he didn’t believe that for a second. He’d wager Makepeace was standing still as a rock, like they were, listening as intently as they were. He had to know they were in the house. Did he also know about the cops outside? Probably. Ah, but he couldn’t be sure they were on to him. He had to come out of the corridor and onto the second-floor landing. He had to make a move, it only made sense. Surely he was waiting for Julia to come upstairs. Did he have any idea why they were here? Savich bet he knew exactly why they were here—how, he didn’t know, but Makepeace knew.
One eternal minute passed, then another. It seemed like a decade. Makepeace had to know something was wrong by now. It had been too long since anyone had made any noise. Then Savich knew why. “Down, Sherlock!”