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 Del’s head. How did he get away? We don’t know. Damnation, it’s driving everyone nuts. His aged photo is plastered everywhere. 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 thing. I prefer the traditional face-to-face method.
“Now, there are also many different ways to hypnotize someone. I use the fixation object method.” He pulled a shiny pocket watch out of his vest pocket. For a moment he looked embarrassed, then shrugged. “It belonged to my grandfather. I’ve always worn it, just discovered a couple of years ago that it was the perfect object for me to use to relax people. Now, I want you to sit back and look at this watch, Becca. Just listen to the sound of my voice.” He started talking, nonsense really, his voice low and smooth and never rising, never falling, always the same. She stared at the watch that was swinging gently back and forth, back and forth. “You will find that your eyelids have a tendency to get heavy,” he said in that singsong soft voice. “That’s right, just look at the watch. See how it’s moving so slowly right before your eyes?”
Agent Cobb continued reciting a familiar litany to everyone in the room. His voice stayed low and smooth and very intimate. That damned watch kept swinging back and forth, shiny, gold, swinging. Adam had to shake his head and look away. He was getting drawn under.
Five minutes later, Becca was still staring at the shiny gold pocket watch, listening to Agent Cobb’s voice telling her about how her eyes were going to close now, how she felt good, and comfortable, how she could just let herself drift. But she didn’t. She tried desperately to relax, to get with the program, but she couldn’t. All she could see was Sam, that sweet little boy, holding out his arms to her, smiling but hardly ever saying anything. Krimakov had him. He would kill him, kill him without hesitation, without a qualm of regret, if she didn’t do something. An innocent child, it didn’t matter to him, any more than Linda Cartwright had mattered. She had to-
Agent Cobb knew it wasn’t working, but he kept swinging the watch as he said calmly, in an easy, deep voice, “You were sound asleep, right, Becca, the night he took you?”
“Yes, I was,” she said, her voice slow, mimicking his. “I remember knowing that I wasn’t dreaming, a very good thing. Then I felt this prick in my arm and I jerked awake. It was him.”
“But you couldn’t make out his features? Could you make out anything? Surmise anything from the way he was standing, the way he held his arms? His body?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not going under, Becca.” Scratch sighed. He lowered the beautiful gold watch, slipping it easily back into his vest pocket. “I don’t know why it’s not working. Usually someone very intelligent, very creative, like you are, goes under right away. But you didn’t.”
She knew why. She couldn’t tell him, couldn’t tell anyone.
He said in that same easy voice, hitting it right on target, “Something’s holding you back. Perhaps you know what it is?” When she didn’t say anything, he looked over at Thomas Matlock. “No go. For whatever reason.”
Tellie Hawley nodded. “Okay, then, we ask questions and you answer as best you can.”
She nodded and talked. And there wasn’t anything at all new or earth-shattering. Except-
“Adam, did anyone find anything in the hem of my nightgown?”
He shook his head.
“Then he must have found it,” she said. “He let me go to the bathroom. I knew I had to do something. I managed to unscrew one of those enamel bolts that hold the toilet to the floor. I pulled open the hem in my nightgown and worked it in. He must have found it.”
“Yes,” said Hawley, “he found it. He left the toilet bolt in the room, on Agent Marlane’s bed. The techs found it and I read it on the collected evidence sheet-‘one toilet bolt’-and I just forgot about it in all the chaos. Actually when the techs found it, they thought some nurse’s aide had dropped it and they were laughing about it. Well, it wasn’t any joke. That proves conclusively it was the same guy.” He shook his head. “A toilet bolt, a damned toilet bolt.”
“He was taunting us,” Thomas said. He got to his feet and began pacing the long living room. “I wish to God I knew where he was. I’d just put an end to it. Face him, just the two of us.”
Becca said, her voice overloud, too sharp, “No.” And everyone stared at her. “I will not let you face him alone, Father. No way.”
They took a break in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Then Thomas took them to his office to see some of his high- tech goodies. Then they went back to the living room. It was then that Agent Cobb said to Becca, “May we try one more time to put you under?”
She agreed. What else could she do?
This time, though, Agent Cobb handed her a small white pill. “It’s a Valium, to help relax you, to keep you from focusing on something else that might be holding you back. Nothing more than that. You game?”
She took the Valium.
And ten minutes later, when Agent Cobb said, “Are you completely relaxed now, Becca?” she answered in an easy, light voice, “Yes, I am.”
“You’re aware of everything going on here?”
“Yes, Adam is over there staring at me as if he’d like to wrap me into a very small package and hide me inside his coat pocket.”
“What is your father doing?”
“It’s still hard for me to think of him as my father. He was dead for so very long, you know.”
“Yes, I know. But he’s here now, with you.”
“Yes. He’s sitting there wondering if he should let you continue with this. He’s afraid for me. I don’t know why.
