“We need to know if this plot is the brainchild of Al Qaeda, ISIS, or a smaller radical group. It appears to come out of London, so that’s our focus, particularly the South London Mosque and Imam Al-H?di ibn Mirza, until we know for sure otherwise. Agent Drummond”—Kelly nodded to him, and Nicholas gave a little wave—“is our liaison with MI5. He’ll be updating your data packs periodically as we learn more about what’s going on in London.
“You may have heard a brief discussion about the question of a lawyer for Mr. Conklin. The word has come down. There will be no lawyer for now. We have sole custody. We’ve decided to take him to a safe house for the benefit of all. The location is classified.” She paused, didn’t want to admit this, but she had to. Suck it up, Giusti. “Here it is. So far Conklin refuses to say anything. He keeps insisting he wants to speak to Agent Sherlock, the FBI agent who brought him down at JFK. However, we will continue working on him. I’m confident we’ll get him to open up.”
“If he doesn’t, will Agent Sherlock be joining the operation?” Nicholas Drummond asked.
How odd it was to hear a British accent coming out of an FBI agent’s mouth. Kelly said only, “We’ll see.”
An agent from Homeland Security said, “We haven’t even discussed the possibility that the attack on Saint Patrick’s Cathedral could have been an attempt to assassinate the vice president of the United States. There were also a number of high-ranking state and federal politicians and businesspeople there.”
SAC Milo Zachery rose. “A good point, Arlo. We have considered this possibility and have assembled a small group of agents to look into this. We want to cover all bases. Now, all of you know what to do. Communicate any questions or suggestions you have directly to Agent Giusti.” He looked at each face. “It’s feet-to-the-coals time, people. Good luck and thank you.”
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Thursday morning
On the drive from Richmond to Plackett, Sherlock took a call from the medical examiner who’d just completed the autopsy on Deputy Kane Lewis. Straight up, the knife to the chest had killed him. Also of note: Deputy Lewis had been a longtime drinker, and his cirrhosis was getting serious. He’d had a blood alcohol content of .25, enough to render him nearly unconscious when he’d been stabbed. “I doubt he felt a thing when the knife went in, so that’s something. No need to let this get out in town, though. His family doesn’t need to know.”
Families, particularly the wives, always knew, Sherlock thought. About other women, and certainly about too much booze.
Savich said, “You know Sheriff Watson will find out about Lewis’s being drunk. At least he wasn’t on the job.
“Sparky Carroll didn’t have anything in his system when he was murdered yesterday in the Rayburn Office Building. He had no defensive wounds, either. He knew his attacker, Walter Givens, but there were so many people in the hallway I doubt he saw him until it was too late.
“Burt Hildebrand wasn’t a happy camper when Mr. Maitland turned over the Sparky Carroll investigation to us, but what with the Athame being the murder weapon and Walter Givens not remembering anything about it, I suspect he was also a little relieved.
“He took the chaplain with him to break the news to Sparky Carroll’s young widow, Tammy, yesterday afternoon. He said it was tough, she was a mess. He couldn’t interview her because her mother and her two sisters wouldn’t let him. None of the three, however, could believe Walter Givens had done this. They’d known Walter forever, he was a sweetie, the mother’s words, he fixed their cars and charged them peanuts.
“I think we’ll do better today,” Savich continued. “Tammy Carroll’s had some time to get herself together, to reflect on what it could mean that Walter Givens killed her husband with a witch’s ceremonial knife and has absolutely no memory of it.
“I texted pictures of the Dual Dragon Athame to Professor Hornsby at GW. You know him, he’s the theoretical physicist who’s also a practicing Wiccan—a Wicca expert, I’ve been told.”
“I met him once. He sort of stared at me, shook his head, didn’t say a word. He looks like Ichabod Crane.”
Savich laughed, flipped on his blinker, and smoothly passed an eighteen-wheeler. “You probably terrified him. He’s not known for his social abilities. In any case, he called me right back, told me the Dual Dragon Athame is unusual. It’s not medieval, despite all the ancient-looking elaborate carving on the handle and the dragon heads with the ruby eyes, which, he assured me, were real. He believes it was forged no more than a hundred years ago, probably much less. It’s old enough, though, to be part of a generational collection belonging, most likely, to a Wiccan family. He was appalled when I told him it had been stabbed into a man’s heart.
“He assured me that for Wiccans the Athame isn’t a weapon, isn’t even used to cut up herbs. It’s only used for ritual purposes. He laughed because he said he was clumsy and told me he made sure his knife blade was dull. He showed me photos of Athames. Most are very plain, black handle, unadorned, many made of stone, the key being to keep the material natural. Most have a four-inch blade. All Athames are straight, double-edged blades. The length of the blade of this Dual Dragon Athame is seven inches.
“Hornsby told me a Wiccan’s Athame is his most important tool, that it’s tied intimately to its owner’s energy.”
“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked. “It’s all symbolism?”
“This is what I remember his saying. The Athame serves as a conductor of the wielder’s energy—that is, it directs his energy outward, like a beam of light. And supposedly controls it. What that means, I’m not sure.”
“Did he say any particular Athame was considered more powerful than another?”
“No, they’re all individual, they all draw their power or their energy from their owners.”
Savich pulled off I-95 and onto the 123, and turned right at the Plackett exit some ten miles later. Soon they were on the main street of an old country town with a road sign boasting a population of 2,102. Many of the buildings were turn of the last century and looked a little shabby. But there was charm as well, and a central square with a hundred-year-old stone courthouse surrounded by maple trees. A small pond with a dozen ducks sat off to one side.
The home of Sparky Carroll and his wife, Tammy, was in the middle of Pine Nut Street, a solidly middle-class residential neighborhood parallel to Main Street. Oaks and maples had thickened up nicely for late spring, the sky was blue, and a slight breeze stirred their hair as they walked up the flagstone driveway to the ranch-style home. It was perhaps ten years old, and well maintained, the grass freshly mowed, pansies planted in narrow beds in front of the house. Savich was glad to see there were no cars in the driveway. He’d called Mrs. Carroll, asking to speak to her alone.
A perfect pocket Venus answered the door. She was barely five feet tall, curvy, with long straight brown hair and brown eyes red from weeping. She was painfully young. Savich and Sherlock showed her their creds, introduced themselves.
“We are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carroll,” Savich said. “Thank you for seeing us. We really need your help.”
Tammy didn’t say anything; it seemed her throat had been clogged with tears since she’d heard all the shouting and screams on her cell when Sparky had called her. She’d known, she’d known something terrible had happened. She turned away on her small feet and showed them into a long, narrow living room with windows across the front, the thick green draperies pulled tightly shut, shadowing the room.
She waved a small white hand. “Please, sit down. May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Savich said. “We’re fine.” He walked over to her and gently took her small hands between his. “We will find out why Walter Givens killed Sparky, Mrs. Carroll.”