She looked at the few remaining lights across Lake Massey. “Some seven-plus thousand visitors to the festival are tucked in their beds now, maybe reading books they bought, talking about the authors they met. What happened to Octavia won’t be in the local paper until tomorrow. Like you, they can be happy they have clean sheets.”
Sala tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. “We turned off our phones when we arrived, told our families not to bother to call or check in. I’m not ready to talk with her parents yet about what happened. Bless Mr. Maitland for dealing with her family and her boss.” He fell silent again, staring at nothing really, remembering, seeing stark images in his mind of Octavia’s face, the fear in her eyes that she might die. “I know you’re right—he took off the mask before he killed her, in case she hadn’t recognized him.”
“I imagine he did, otherwise he wouldn’t get his full quota of revenge. Octavia had to know who he was so she could fully appreciate how clever he is. I couldn’t tell if he was still wearing a stocking over his face on the lake. He was too far away.”
Sala looked at his bandaged wrists, scarcely felt the welts and bruises with the cream Dr. Staunton had smeared on. “No matter the time lag, months or years, it still surprises me Octavia didn’t recognize his voice right away. Octavia remembered how her termite exterminator talked, so why not him? Like I said, he had a Southern accent.” He swallowed. “But she was very frightened.”
“And fear can freeze you up. Maybe he disguised his voice, I don’t know.”
“I really like—liked—Octavia. She had guts, she was bright, and she really cared about helping people who couldn’t help themselves.”
“Which law firm was she with?”
“Jacobson, Wile, and Corman, in D.C. They’ll be served with a warrant for their records of all the cases she was involved in. You know the lawyers are going to shout client confidentiality, no matter that one of their own was murdered. We’re talking court orders, delays—I mean, that’s what they all do, stall as long as they can to show their clients they tried. The bastards.”
“No disagreement from me.” She lightly patted his leg. “No more cramps?”
“No, I’m fine, good to go.” He looked back at the lake again, sitting perfectly still, and she knew what had happened to him, to them, was running on an endless loop. How long would it take for the experience to fade? A long time, Ty imagined. He’d known Octavia, slept with her, laughed with her. Ty couldn’t imagine what he was feeling. What Ty herself felt was wrung out and sad. She got to her feet. “It’s late. You ready to sleep?”
Sala rose to stand beside her, looking down at his bandaged wrists, not at her. “I guess I’m a coward, me the tough FBI agent, but I don’t want to close my eyes. I’ll see Octavia’s face. I’ll see that closet.”
She said matter-of-factly, “Tell you what, let’s haul a mattress and a couple of blankets and pillows out here. I’ve done it myself, and it’s a great way to get to sleep. You can look up at the stars, listen to the crickets, maybe drink another beer. I’ll drink another one with you.”
He really looked at her then, realized she was tall, at least five ten, nearly to his nose. The moonlight cast shadows on her face, but her eyes were clear and bright and compassionate. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s a great idea.” He paused. “Too bad I don’t have Lucky with me.”
“Lucky?”
“My cat. She’s a sweetheart. She’s pure black with big green eyes and she sleeps on my chest at night, purrs so loud the rhythm puts me right out. I had to leave her with my sister. My sister adores Lucky, so I’m wondering if she’ll want to come back home. It’s been a long time.”
“Lucky will race you back to your house, you’ll see. Where’d you get her?”
“I rescued her as a kitten, not even three pounds, found in an alley in Georgetown. Her first night, she tucked herself in around my neck, happy as a clam. And she’s been around my neck ever since.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
“Then I’ll make sure you do.”
Before Sala fell asleep thirty minutes later, he wasn’t thinking about his cat. He was thinking about that single forgotten toilet paper roll and praying the fingerprints on the rod weren’t from some local teenager who’d broken into the house and left it there.
16
* * *
SAVICH HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
SATURDAY NIGHT
Savich was sitting up in bed, pillows behind him, working on MAX. He looked up and forgot what he was doing. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Sherlock in those tiger-striped sleep boxers and flowy top, silhouetted by the bathroom light, her hair pulled up on top of her head in a riot of curls, her face scrubbed clean, looking about sixteen.
Sherlock paused a moment, cocked her head to one side, listening. “I can’t get used to the quiet. Not a single sleeping-kid snort, no little feet padding down the hall to say good night to us or crawl in between us after a nightmare.” She stopped cold and swallowed hard. “I thought I’d come to grips with what happened today at the book festival, that man trying to take Sean again.” She shook her head. “It scared me to death, Dillon. And I didn’t catch him. Again.”
He patted the bed beside him. “Come here.” He gathered her close, kissed the top of her head. “I should have been with you, shouldn’t have gone off with the chief of police.”
It snapped her back. “Then you wouldn’t have found Sala, so all in all, I’d say we were all lucky. You know it was the same man, Dillon. How did he know we’d be at the book festival?”
“Best guess, he followed us, or maybe hacked the car’s GPS or tracked our cell phones. Then he waited for his chance, waited until you were with Sean and Marty by yourself. But a chocolate bar? Seems like he didn’t think it through very well. He had to know you’d be watching for him, and you were.”
“Dillon, if he followed us there, then he could have followed us to your mom’s house.”
“Don’t worry. Senator Monroe is sleeping at Mom’s house for the duration, and so is one of his aides. Sean will never be alone.”
He closed down MAX and laid him on the bedside table, plugged into the charger next to their cell phones. “You know what I’m missing right now? Singing him his nightly country western song. He always wants another verse and he can’t ever stay awake for the last verse, even with his current favorite, ‘Elvis in the Chariot.’?” He kissed her forehead, her nose, her ear. “Well, at least my mom’s a happy camper. Do you think she’s singing to him now about Elvis waving for the chariot to swoop down and fetch him up?”
“She doesn’t have to go that far, she’s the goddess of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.” She saw his smile, and for a moment, she felt one on her mouth as well, but soon it fell off. She felt her fear return, familiar to her now, always with her. Would he try again? When? Tonight Sean was safe, but what about tomorrow? Would he try to kidnap Sean from his day camp? Hard to imagine, everyone was alerted now.
They were both quiet a moment, then she whispered. “Octavia Ryan’s dead, and Sala’s got to be a mess. At least he’s staying with the chief. She’ll make sure he’s all right.”
Savich kept his voice calm, although he felt like hitting something. “I spoke briefly to Ty—Chief Christie. Concussion or not, I don’t think she’d have let Sala come back to Washington by himself. She’s a good woman, levelheaded, smart.” He remembered Detective Harry Anson in Seattle saying Ty was a bulldog. He knew to his gut now Anson was right. “Let it go for a little while, sweetheart. We should both try to let it go.”
But she was caught up in it. “Dillon, I still can’t get over that vision you had—the murderer coming back to the dock. And Sala hearing a girl’s mad laughter? Who was that? Maybe it’ll be her prints they found on that toilet paper rod.”
Savich wanted to distract her, distract himself. “All I can think about right now is getting you out of your tiger stripes.”