Scratch added to Thomas as he walked beside him into the living
room. He was looking at a particularly lovely old Tabriz carpet.
“Thank you,Agent Cobb,” Thomas said. “Won’t you be seated?”
After everyone was settled, Agent Hawley said, “Since we were
the ones who initially spoke to Ms. Matlock in the hospital, and
since I knew you, sir, Mr. Bushman decided we should stay on as
the leads. Of course Savich and Sherlock are on it as well, and he
approves of that. It doesn’t mean, of course, that the folk here at
FBI headquarters are sitting on their hands. They’re not.”
Thomas nodded. “No, they never do. I’m very sorry about the
agents Krimakov murdered in New York, Hawley. It’s got to be an
awful blow.”
Tellie Hawley turned pale, then just as suddenly he flushed red
with anger. “The bastard killed four more people in cold blood.
He just waltzed into the hospital–God knows how he was disguised
–and he killed the two agents guarding her room, then
went inside and put six shots in Agent Marlane and three more
shots in Dels head. How did he get away? We don’t know. Damnation,
it’s driving everyone nuts. His aged photo is plastered every
where. We’ve got dozens of agents walking around a mile radius of
NYU Hospital showing’ everyone his photo. Nothing yet.” He
stopped and Becca could feel the pain, the guilt, the rage, radiating
from him, spilling out in waves. He’d been the one in charge, the
one giving orders. She wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. She felt
guilty enough in her own shoes.
Sam. Oh God, Sam. What to do?
She watched Tellie Hawley get himself together. He cleared his
throat, looked directly at her, and said, “Now, Ms. Matlock, we’re
here to speak to you in detail about your time with him.”
“I’m very sorry, Agent Hawley, but I’ve told you everything I
know. I wish there were more but I just can’t come up with anything
else, even irrelevant.”
Agent Hawley sat forward in his chair, his hands dangling between
his legs. “The mind is a marvelous instrument, Ms. Matlock.
It takes in stuff you’re not even aware of. We’re betting you do
know more about Krimakov. You just don’t remember it on a conscious
level. We’re hoping it’s lurking in your subconscious. Ah,
Agent Cobb here is an expert hypnotist. He’d like to take you under,
really get at what this guy was like, maybe even what he looked
like. You know, stuff you’ve blocked out or you’re not even aware
that you know, stuff you just can’t bring up to a conscious level.”
Agent Cobb handed her the old photo of Krimakov. “You’ve
seen this?”
“Yes, of course. My father showed it to me immediately, the
aged photo as well. I’ve studied and studied it. I’m sorry, but I just
don’t know if it’s him. I never saw him. He was always in the
shadows.”
“Look again at the aged photo.”
She took it, studied it yet again. She still saw an older man,
whose face was lean and deeply tanned from years of living on the
Mediterranean. His hair had receded, leaving two deep slashes of
tanned scalp on either side of a spear of gray hair. His eyes were
dark, his features Slavic, wide, flat cheekbones. He looked like he
could be a very nice grandfather. And she wondered: Is that you?
Are you the one who took me from Jacob Marley’s house? Did you
lick my cheek? She handed Agent Cobb back the photo. “I have
thought and thought. I really don’t consciously remember anything
more. I’m willing to go under.”
“Are you sure, Becca? You don’t have to.”
She glanced toward her father, who was standing behind a chair,
looking at her intently. She didn’t know that very handsome man
with all those expressions on his face that she didn’t understand,
but then, she realized that she did know him; on a very deep level,
she knew him quite well. It was a very strange feeling. “Yes, sir”–
her voice was steady–“I’m sure.”
“All right, then,” Agent Cobb said, looking directly at her.
“There’s nothing to be concerned about. I don’t go for the couch