Blowout (27 page)

S
AVICH DIDN
'
T MOVE
. He nearly stopped breathing. He wondered in that instant what that SKB shotgun fired at this close range would do to his chest. Probably shred both the vest and him, and he'd be dead so fast he wouldn't even realize it. He smiled at Martin Thornton. “This hole in the wall. Do you know what it made me think about?”

Martin blinked, his eyes slowly focused. He looked over at the wall. “What?”

“I was thinking that this was the very first time I've seen what a shotgun blast could do to a wall, and I was wondering what it would do to a human body. I'm wearing a Kevlar vest, but even so, I think it would splatter me from here into the next block. It would make an awful mess.”

Martin stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. Slowly, he shook his head. “No, I don't want to think what it would do to you.”

“I hope you never have to see it. Now, I want you to listen to me carefully, Martin. Are you hearing me?”

Savich waited. Slowly, Martin nodded. Savich saw his fingers
ease off the trigger, saw he was holding the shotgun more loosely now. Good, he had his attention.

“You've already done a very violent thing in firing that shotgun, but no one was hurt. Now concentrate, focus your mind. I want you to look inside yourself, Martin. Look at the powerful feelings that made you do that. Examine them, ruminate on each one of them. Look at them like you would something you want to eat, something you're not really sure of, but you're hungry, you have this compulsion to eat everything in front of you. I want you to ask yourself where those feelings are coming from.”

Martin looked bewildered. “I don't know. I don't want to look at them. I want them to go away and stay away, but they won't. They get all heaped up in my head, and I can't see clearly, can't separate them out. They're there all of a sudden and make me crazy, they just—happen, like this morning, everything just popped. I knew it was happening, but I couldn't stop it, just couldn't.”

“You're a strong person, Martin. You've survived what many men would never survive, so I know you can deal with this, too. I'm not a physician to give you drugs or tell you to meditate to stop the feelings from overwhelming you.

“What I know is this—you and I are standing right here, you've got a shotgun in your hand, the police are outside, and your family is frightened. This is real, Martin, and it could turn tragic. You have to deal with this right now. Without violence, without any more loss of control. I want you to focus your mind on the most real thing in the world to you—your wife, Janet, who's scared even though she's hiding it really well. You don't want her to be frightened any more, do you?”

“I—I, no, I don't. I hate it when this happens because I can see
she's afraid, afraid of me. And she's afraid even more for the girls. Oh God, I love Janet.”

“I can see why.”

Martin shook his head, as if coming out of a fog. His voice was shaking as he said, “I'm sorry. I understand. I think I'm feeling better now. Those feelings seem to be backing off, I'm more in control again. Really, I'm not just saying that. Please, Agent Savich, sit down.”

Martin paused, his hand loosening even more on the beautiful black walnut stock of the shotgun. He said, his voice curiously childlike, wistful, “I've never met an FBI agent before.” He turned to his wife, and his voice was easier now, less frightened. “Janet, did you hear what he said?”

“Yes, and it makes a lot of sense to me, Martin. You didn't want to see a doctor before, but now that's what we must do.” She glanced at Savich, and quickly again at the shotgun.

“Janet, did you hear what he said to me about my mother?”

She nodded. “Yes. He said your dead mother came to him, then she came to him again in his dreams. She spoke of you, her precious boy. She wants him to help you.” She touched her husband's shoulder. “Martin, please put down that shotgun. I never want to see it again, ever. I want to throw it in the river.”

He nodded and grinned at her, actually grinned. “It's going to cost us a fortune to repair the wall.”

“Forget about the wall. Agent Savich is going to help us, Martin.” She held out her hand. “Give me that thing. I know it's beautiful. I know you paid a bundle for it, but it frightens me. It destroys. I'm going to unload it and lay it beside the front door. Okay?”

“Here,” was all he said, and handed her the shotgun. She paused
a second, because she really didn't want to touch it, but she took it and did exactly what she'd said she would. She walked to the front door, unloaded the shotgun, and laid it on the floor.

Us,
Savich thought, Janet had said
us,
not just her husband. And that may have been the right thing to say. When she returned, he said, “Please, both of you, call me Dillon.” Odd how so few people called him by his first name, but somehow, in this circumstance, he knew it was right. He smiled at both of them.

“Thank you, Dillon,” Janet said. “Sit down, Martin. I'm going to go talk to the girls. They're scared and I want them to know everything is all right. I'll be right back.”

Martin looked undecided, but for only a moment. “All right. I'm sorry, Janet, I didn't mean to—the girls, God, I scared them to death. I'm so sorry.”

She hugged him, kissed his cheek. “It will be all right. I'll speak to the girls, make them understand, then I'll be back. I'm going to leave them in the bedroom, it'll make them feel safer, I think. Now, would you like some coffee, Dillon?”

He smiled at her. “Tea would be wonderful.”

“A real live tea drinker. Goodness, we're coffee addicts in this house. I'll be right back. You talk to him, Martin. You talk to him, tell him everything, and then listen.” She nodded, patted her husband's shoulder, and lightly shoved him down into a big easy chair with a remote control pocket holder on the side, obviously his chair.

Martin eased down into the chair like it was an old friend and stretched out his legs in front of him. As if by habit, he reached into the chair's side pocket, felt the remote control, brought his hand back up. He didn't face Savich yet, just looked down at the
remote for several moments. Then he splayed his palms on his legs, as if trying to relax. He said, still without looking up, “I lost it. I just lost it. Like Janet said, it's happened a couple of other times, but I never had a gun before.” He shuddered, drew a deep breath, and at last met Savich's eyes. “I went out last week to a gun show in Baltimore, and I bought the SKB and a big box of shells.”

“Why?”

“I don't know really. I felt I had to. Something was pushing me, like it had me by the throat. I felt like something bad was coming.”

“Was it a memory, or dream, what?”

“A dream where everything is black, and I'm hiding, where, I don't know, but I do know to my soul I have to stay hidden. I know something horrible is happening, but I can't move.”

“Do you think it had something to do with your mother's murder?”

Martin looked toward the hole in the living room wall. “Everything was black. I couldn't see anything, couldn't even tell where I was. I didn't even know my mother was murdered until I was eighteen.”

“You didn't know or you didn't remember?”

“I don't really know which. All I knew was that she wasn't there anymore. Sheriff Harms—I remember him really well—he was younger then than I am now—I saw him in my dream when I was eighteen. I actually saw my hand in his. Mine was so small and his was like a giant's, I do remember that, and he was leading me downstairs and my father and a whole lot of people were there, looking very serious and sad. He handed me over to my father. Then I don't remember anything, except that we were living in Boston, though I don't remember moving there, or how or why.
Mom was gone, and that was really hard, but my father said it wasn't our fault she died, that he expected me to be a good, strong, young man.

“After a while I didn't really ask about her anymore or think about her, accepted that my father and I were in Boston, and I went to school and made friends like any other kid.

“Like I said, I didn't know anything about how my mother died until I was eighteen. About two months before I graduated high school, I began having nightmares—really violent dreams about people having their throats cut, people being stabbed in the chest—horrible dreams, blood everywhere, and I'd wake up screaming.” He paused, shuddering with memory. “I remember my father came in once. He didn't say anything, even when I gasped out the dream I'd had. He stood there, stared at me like I was a freak, like he was afraid of me. Then he left, and he didn't come back when I had the other dreams. I woke up alone and I stayed alone.” Martin looked at Savich. “It was around that time I realized something was really wrong.”

Martin's father hadn't said anything about this to Sherlock. Hadn't Townsend Barrister realized what the dreams meant? Of course he had.

Savich sat forward on the sofa, his hands clasped between his knees. “Later, did you talk to your father about the dreams?”

Martin shook his head. “I couldn't, and besides, I knew he didn't want to know. I'd look at him and my two little bratty and normal stepsisters at the dinner table, and I'd think,
I could dream tonight that someone is stabbing Cassie through her neck and cutting Tammy's throat.
And I could see their blood, their surprise, the looks on their faces and then they'd be dead.

“It wasn't something I could talk about. They wouldn't
understand. My father behaved as if he'd rather not even have me there, as if he'd rather I didn't even exist. It was like he was afraid of me.”

“Then what happened? Did you tell your father anything?”

“Yes, I asked him one day how my mother died.”

“Out of the blue? For the first time since she was murdered in 1973, you thought to ask him?”

Martin nodded slowly. “Yeah. It came to me, probably because of my dreams, I'm not sure. But it came out. Suddenly I had to know.”

“What did your father say?”

“He told me there'd been a terrible accident on the day of my sixth birthday. My mother had slipped and fallen on a kitchen knife, and she'd died. And he'd brought me here to Boston, so we could both recover, start over again. He called her death an accident. Can you believe that?”

“I gather you didn't believe him?”

“No, I could see in his eyes he was keeping something back. I realize now he didn't want my half-sisters or my stepmother, Jenny, to find out, and be afraid, maybe be afraid of him.

“So I went off to search on my own. I looked up the Barristers in old newspaper files. Remember, this was before the Internet, back in 1984. But it was enough to point me back. I remembered a road sign clear as day—Blessed Creek. I knew it was a little hick town in the Poconos, in northeastern Pennsylvania. I drove out there. It didn't take me long looking through archives from that time to learn that she'd been murdered, that my father had taken me away to Boston right after the funeral.”

“Is that why you disappeared after your high school graduation? Did you think your father had something to do with it?”

Martin wouldn't meet his eyes.

“Listen to me, Martin. You were only six years old when she was killed. Kids have an amazing ability to block things out that could harm them. And that's what you did. You saved yourself by repressing everything that happened until you were older, more ready to face up to what happened.”

“I know, I know.” He was twisting his hands together, and Savich knew that for the moment, they'd accomplished enough.

“Hey, don't worry about it, Martin. Show me how that remote works. It looks pretty fancy.”

F
IVE MINUTES LATER
, Janet Thornton came into the living room to see her husband showing the FBI agent how to work a remote that she hadn't yet figured out. She was carrying a colorful wooden tray, coffee, tea, and a small plate of cookies on top of it. She poured Savich some tea, arched a questioning eyebrow as she handed it to him.

“Straight is fine. Thank you.”

The tea was delicious. He hadn't realized how cold he'd been. This was so mundane, so normal, sitting here learning about a remote, drinking tea, and knowing he'd find out soon enough why Martin had left the day after he'd graduated high school. For now, drinking tea was just fine. He drank, felt the warmth all the way to his belly, and thanked God he was still alive. “My wife, who's also an FBI agent, is outside with the police and your neighbors. I'd like to call her, tell her that everything's okay. Also, I don't want the cops to worry, maybe fire something in here. Okay by you, Martin?”

Martin drank his coffee, said nothing, only nodded.

“That's a very good idea,” Janet said as she sat herself on the other end of the sofa, as close to her husband as she could get without climbing into his lap.

Sherlock answered before the second note sounded in
Bolero.

“Sherlock, it's me. Martin is disarmed, we're talking, everything's under control. He's calm and rational, telling me what's happened to him. Please tell Chief Gerber and Joe Gaines, the hostage negotiator, they can stand down, at least put away their weapons. There's no reason for anyone to get hurt now.”

He heard her speaking, then she was back on the cell. “Chief Gerber won't go for it. You need to tell him yourself, Dillon.”

Savich did, slowly, easily, making certain Chief Gerber knew he wasn't under any duress.

“Yes, I'm sure of it. In fact, I'm drinking an excellent cup of tea at this very moment. There's a plate of chocolate chip cookies in front of me. Janet Thornton is fine, as are the girls. I think it would be best if you dispersed the neighbors, told them that everything is all right. I don't want them looking at Martin like he's some sort of freak who will flip out when he walks out of here.”

There was a long pause, then Chief Gerber said, “I'll do that, Agent Savich. Your wife said that if I don't believe you I might as well hang it up and sail to Fiji. Not a bad idea, really. But you've got to know that none of my people are leaving here until I see Martin Thornton in custody and everyone safely out of that house.”

“Believe me, Chief Gerber, I appreciate that. Thank you for your cooperation. That will take some more time. Oh yes, would you please tell my wife it will be a little while longer?” He shut off the cell and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

“You don't pull any punches, do you?” Janet Thornton said, a dark eyebrow arched up a good inch.

“No reason to. Both of you know exactly what the score is, what's going on outside. Chief Gerber is a good man. He'll deal with things. As for your neighbors, I'm thinking you guys should move away from here. People don't forget the sound of a shotgun, or police cars all over the neighborhood, not when they've got kids around.”

“No, you don't pull any punches,” Martin said. “Yes, we'll move. I hadn't thought that far ahead yet.”

“Of course not,” Savich said. “Do you feel like getting back to it, Martin?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me why you disappeared right after you graduated, without saying a word to your father.”

“When he looked me right in the eye and told me that my mother's death was an accident, something died inside. I simply couldn't accept who he was or what he was. I remember very clearly thinking my old man had lied to me, flat-out lied, not because of me, mind you, but because of his wife, Jenny, my stepmother, and their two daughters. I realized I had nothing to do with his new life. If he could, I think he would have swept me under the carpet or tossed me out with the trash.”

“My wife, Agent Sherlock, said that isn't true at all. When she spoke to your father, he was frantic to know where you were.”

Martin's clear brown eyes, very intelligent eyes, had no shadows or madness in them now, just disbelief. “It may have suited the moment. I really don't believe him.”

Savich nodded. “You know him better than we. But tell me why you erased yourself.”

“Erased myself,” Martin repeated slowly, as if tasting the words. “Yes, I suppose I did that. I got a whole new identity. It's not hard to do if you live in Boston, and are willing to take some chances. I approached people on the street—fences, drug addicts—until I found the people who were willing to sell me an identity. I bought my name—Martin Thornton—got a social security number, a driver's license, everything I needed, and then I hitchhiked out of Boston, didn't tell a single person where I was going. Actually, I didn't know myself.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went out to Seattle at first, got a job pumping gas, started working my way through school. The dreams stopped then. It seemed that when I found out about my mother's murder, I didn't need to dream about it anymore. The funny thing is, I wanted to remember my mother, I wanted to know what she was like. I wanted to know who murdered her and why. But the dreams never told me that.” He stopped suddenly, stuck out his hand for Janet to take, and said, “I dated. I slept with my first girlfriend when I was nineteen. I felt like a man. I felt normal.”

“You are normal,” Janet said, and there was absolute conviction in her voice. “What happened to you, Martin—your mother's murder, being uprooted, not having your father tell you the truth—you dealt amazingly well with all of it. If I'd started having those dreams, I would have ended up in Boston Harbor or slitting my wrists. You didn't do either of those things. You survived.

“I don't blame you for leaving your father, for chucking all of
it. The only thing is, I wish you had told me. We've been married eleven years, and you never told me. What Agent Savich said about the truth—he's right, only the truth will do. I wish you'd told me so I could have helped.”

“I couldn't,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “I never wanted to think about him again. I never wanted it to touch our lives. I didn't want it to hurt you, or us.”

“Well, aren't you a bloody fool!?”

He actually grinned, squeezed his wife's hand. Savich held very still, knowing he was invisible to them in this moment.

A few moments later he brought them back.

“Martin, the first episode, when was that?”

Janet Thornton sucked in her breath. “What a horrible word.”

Savich shrugged. “But I think it fits, more or less, don't you?”

“Yes,” Martin said. “Now I can say that. Six months ago, it just hit me like a hammer. All sorts of wild things careened through my head. I thought I was going crazy. It lasted only a couple of hours, but I scared the hell out of Janet. She talked me down, thank God. The girls weren't here that time or the second time either. That was about two months ago, and that one lasted longer.”

“You were here, at home?”

“Yes, Janet and I were having dinner—hot dogs and baked beans, potato chips—all my favorites. It was the day after my birthday. Janet thought we should have our own private celebration, without the girls. They were at a sleepover at a friend's house. I suddenly remembered this was exactly what I always loved to eat when I was little. I started crying. Janet held me,
didn't stop talking to me, and finally, after a while, everything began to fade.”

Savich looked thoughtful. “The day after your birthday. You nearly remembered something.”

“You think so?”

“Maybe. Then what, Martin?”

“I—I was going to go to a doctor, really I was, to a shrink, but I didn't know anyone and I was, well, I was ashamed. No, I was afraid of what a shrink would say, afraid I'd end up in a padded cell and my life would be over, all except for those horrible dreams. Believe me, Janet's been on my case, but—I didn't go, just didn't.”

“Doesn't matter now. If it's okay with you, Martin, I'm getting rid of that shotgun. I want you to promise me you'll never as long as you live have another gun in your home.”

Martin looked over to where Janet had laid the shotgun on the floor beside the front door.

“All right. Yes, I promise, Dillon.” He rose, but Savich held out his hand.

“Let me tell Chief Gerber that I'll be handing out the shotgun so they don't get nervous.”

When Savich walked back into the living room a few minutes later, he said, “All done. Everything's fine now. We've got a lot of relieved people out there. Now, you guys got a good babysitter?”

They both stared at him. Janet nodded. “Well, yes, my mom. She lives in Rockville. She loves having the girls. When Martin had the second breakdown, I made an excuse and they stayed with her for three days.”

“Good. Both of you are coming with me now, back to
Washington. We'll drop the girls off at your mom's. You'll be staying tonight at the Jefferson Dormitory at Quantico. You'll be safe there, Martin. If something pops again in your brain, there'll be people there to control things.

“Where do you work, Martin?”

“I work in the IT section at the Giant corporate office.”

“Really? I have some interest in computers myself. Maybe we can talk about that later. Anyway, we can call your boss and get you some leave.

“After what's happened here, I'll have to take you into my own custody. We'll call it a temporary commitment. That should keep Chief Gerber from filing any charges.

“Tomorrow morning, you're going to meet Dr. Emanuel Hicks. I'd like him to try to hypnotize you, see if we can learn anything more about what happened to you when you were six years old. And he'll be recommending a psychiatrist to you who'll know all the facts. Sound okay?”

“It sounds like a miracle,” Janet said.

Martin searched Savich's face, and slowly nodded. “Yes, it sounds okay to me, too.”

Janet looked at Savich, held his eyes, and said simply, “Thank you so much for coming into our lives, Dillon. I'll go get us and the girls packed and call my mom.”

Savich said, “Maybe the one to thank is Samantha Barrister. Yeah, I know how strange it all sounds, and maybe I dreamed some of it. But I'll tell you guys, she was as real to me as it gets. I'll tell you more about it after we get to Quantico.

“Right now, I'm going to bring in my wife—she's the one who found you, Martin—and Detective Raven and Ms. Markham.
They'll help get us on the road. The thing is, I'm heading up the investigation of Justice Stewart Califano's murder, and I've got to get back to Washington.”

They both stared at him. Janet walked over to him and hugged him. “Bring on your wife. I can't wait to meet her.”