Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  Her Volvo was totaled? She saw a shocked face, wild fear, and then nothing. A door slammed shut in her mind and she felt trapped inside, something she didn’t understand. She could only lie there, helpless. “The woman who hit me, I saw her face for a moment. She was surprised, then afraid.” She paused, trying to bring it back, but no go. “I don’t remember anything else.”

  “It’s all right. It’s amazing you remember that much. Your brain got slammed around even with the airbag. It will take a while to fill in the blanks.” Maybe she’d never remember the accident, which might be better.

  She had to know, simply had to, but it was frightening to say the words. She whispered, “Why are you here?”

  She watched him cock his head. “Where else would I be? You scared the bejesus out of me, out of a lot of people. Last night, nearly everyone in the unit was here, including Mr. Maitland. Don’t worry, I spoke to your parents and my mom last night, assured them you’re all right. And of course to Gabriella. I told Sean you and I were chasing bank robbers.” He didn’t mention the calls he’d gotten from the Post and the local TV stations. Videos of the spectacular accident and its aftermath had gone viral. The reporter from the Post said there were half a dozen on YouTube. Savich had referred all calls to the media liaison at the Hoover.

  “Parents?”

  He lightly patted her cheek. “Well, sure, no choice. They’re very worried, but I told them not to fly back, you’d be fine in a couple of days. They’ll probably call you later today. You slept through the night, even when the nurse came in to check on you. She was surprised you did and very pleased, said it was the best thing for you.”

  She was silent, then slowly raised her vague summer-blue eyes to his face. It was time to spit it out, time to know, though she was afraid to say it out loud. But she had to know. She whispered, “When I first saw you last night, I thought you had beautiful eyes and awesome eyelashes. Looking at you made something stir in me, something familiar, comforting, but it faded away. I know you’re not a doctor, yet you were here with me whenever I was awake. You’re very handsome and kind and I love your voice. But here it is, I don’t know who you are. And who is Gabriella? Who is Sean?”

  6

  * * *

  At first her words made no sense. Then they did, and Savich felt them like a punch to the gut. She didn’t know who he was? He’d seen memory loss after head trauma, most cops had, but this was different. This wasn’t a stranger, this was Sherlock. Not only didn’t she remember the accident, she didn’t remember him. It nearly broke him, but he knew he had to keep it together, had to keep calm. It was only temporary. It had to be only temporary. He managed a smile. “I’m your husband, Sherlock. Dillon Savich.”

  She frowned, never taking her eyes from his face. “Sherlock? My name is Sherlock?”

  “Yes. Lacey Sherlock Savich.”

  “You’re my husband?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Everyone called her Sherlock? Not Lacey? How strange. Sherlock, now she’d have to get used to her odd name. She stared up at him and he saw a flash of fear, then a hint of a smile. She whispered, “If I were Stacy instead of Lacey, the alliteration would rock the world.”

  For an instant he saw his Sherlock, saw her smile, heard her humor. She was in there. “Yes, you’d be a triple S.”

  “Where did I get a name like Sherlock?”

  Don’t let her see how freaking scared you are. “Your father, Corman Sherlock, is a federal judge in San Francisco. I understand defense lawyers try to avoid cases in front of Judge Sherlock. Your mom is Evelyn. Since the first of the year, she practically runs Davies Hall—that’s where they have classical music, symphonies. They’re both very worried about you.” Was he telling her too much? If he squeezed her hand to reassure her, would he frighten her? After all, she didn’t know him. He was handsome? He drew a breath. “We have a wonderful little boy, Sean. He’s nearly five years old, and a pistol. Gabriella is his nanny, really one of the family.”

  Sherlock heard the words, understood them, and she knew they should make her feel something, remember something, but they didn’t. The life those words painted belonged to someone else. She suddenly saw a large room with workstations, men and women talking, she heard typing on keyboards, laughing, someone calling out a series of numbers, and then a door slammed in her brain again. A memory, but then it was gone, simply gone. The world began spinning, she was in a car and it was spinning round and round, and then there was nothing, only blankness.

  She gasped. His arms were around her, this stranger’s arms, yet somehow familiar and strong. He smelled good. His breath was warm and sweet against her cheek, his voice reassuring. “It’s all right. Don’t worry. Everything will straighten out.” He kissed her forehead, only a light touch, but it froze her.

  He felt it, knew he was scaring her. Well, he was a stranger to her. He eased her back down and lightly stroked her hands.

  She forced herself to calm, focused on his face above hers. This man was her husband? He looked tough with the black beard scruff, like he could derail a train with a punch. His dark eyes were nearly black.

  “I bet women are all over you. Do I have to beat them off with a stick? Maybe punch a few of them?”

  He had to grin. “I guess you’ve protected me a couple of times.”

  Humor. She recognized he was trying to keep it light, keep her fear at bay. She studied his face. It was hard to get the words out. “We’re really married?”

  “Yes. Nearly six years. You became pregnant very soon after we married.” He paused. “Whenever I forgot and said the word ‘pregnant’ in front of you, you had to run to the bathroom and hurl. And something I’ll never forget, whenever I slipped up, you punched me.”

  She pictured herself hugging a toilet, wasn’t sure if it was a flash of memory or a simple visual from his words. “Please show me a photo of Sean.”

  Savich pulled out his cell, showed her a short video of Sean playing basketball with Marty Perry, his best friend for years and years, he’d say. A small boy and girl were kid-shrieking, trash-talking each other like they’d seen on TV, and then she heard a woman’s voice calling out, her own voice, “Come on now, guys, I’ve got my special lemonade ready for you.” The camera panned toward her and she saw a young woman wearing shorts and a cut-off top, her curly red hair in a fat ponytail, flip-flops on her feet and pink toenails. The kids were running madly toward her and she hugged them both and turned to walk up the steps into a house, a kid on each side of her, talking nonstop.

  She swallowed, aware he was looking at her, waiting. For her to suddenly remember everything?

  “The little boy, that’s Sean?”

  “Yes. He loves computer games, Captain Carr and his sidekick Orkett this week. Of course, he loves basketball, would do anything to meet Steph Curry, though he claims he’s going to be tougher and shoot more threes. He’s always running around with our Scottie, Astro. Sean’s smart, a kindhearted kid, and he likes to tell people Marty’s going to be his future wife. Well, one of them.”

  Oddly, that sounded okay, sounded natural. “That woman, it’s me?”

  “Yes. You make lemonade from our own Meyer lemon tree. You’re as kindhearted as Sean and you’re beautiful, as you saw. And smarter than you have a right to be.”

  She remembered the large room. “Do I work?”

  “You do more than work. You and I are both FBI special agents. We’re at the Hoover Building, in my unit, the CAU—the Criminal Apprehension Unit. I’ll tell you all about it later. I think that’s enough for now. Time for you to let your brain relax. Don’t worry too much, everything will come back. A little time, that’s all you’ll need.”

  She was a cop? A federal cop? Did that mean she was tough, like he was? The large room with all the working men and women—that was where she worked? Probably so. The person she was before the accident knew all those people, but the person she was now had no clue. He didn’t want her to be too worried? Like that was possible.r />
  “She—I—have red hair. Really curly?”

  He lightly touched a curl hugging her cheek. “Yes, and lots of it, beautiful stuff. And summer-blue eyes. You’re a knockout, Sherlock. You saw that yourself on the video.”

  “Are my toenails still pink?”

  “You changed to coral last week, to end out the summer, you told me, to prepare your toes for the final leap to fall red.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and closed her eyes. She wanted to cry. She whispered again, “I’m sorry.”

  7

  * * *

  MORGANTOWN, VIRGINIA

  REDEMPTION HOUSE

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  They called her Athena, at her own request. Of course they knew her real name, but no one called her by that name when they had to communicate or when they met here to work at Redemption House, their headquarters in rural Virginia. She said the code name was an added level of security, one she’d picked herself: Athena, goddess of war.

  Nikki Bexholt, Athena, looked at the three people standing in front of her, every one of their faces grim. She’d selected each of them carefully, some for their expertise, some because of their unquestionable loyalty to her. Jasmine Palumbo, her team leader, a supervisor in Bexholt’s client security division, stood tall and straight, with her arm in a sling, guilt radiating off her in waves. Cricket Washburn, supervisor of campus security at Bexholt, managed only an occasional furtive glance toward her. And Dr. Craig Cook, her most precious asset, the shining star in Bexholt’s R&D division, a rare inventive talent, an electrical engineering genius. He was her brain trust with his bald head and his Fu Manchu mustache he hoped made him look less like a nerd, but didn’t. He’d actually been excited about snatching Cummings off the street, undoubtedly pictured himself as a debonair badass. Now he looked more scared and miserable than Jasmine or Cricket. Well, he wasn’t a trained operative, and he never would be. It had been her mistake to think otherwise, a mistake to think any of them were more than the rankest amateurs. But she realized what they needed now was reassurance, her word this was only a minor mishap. They needed some spine, something that seemed at the moment to be in short supply.

  She said in her usual cool, clipped voice, “It wasn’t only you who failed, Jasmine. Our assessment of Cummings, and of the risks involved, was flawed. I thought with a quick injection, a forty-five-minute drive in Jasmine’s SUV, we could get Cummings here without a problem, and believe me, once we had him here, we’d have convinced him there was no choice but to cooperate. I’ll admit, it wasn’t the best-laid plan, but what’s done is done.

  “We have a situation now, and we need to deal with it. Be thankful you weren’t arrested, Jasmine, and fortunately your injuries aren’t too severe.”

  Jasmine Palumbo lightly rubbed her arm through the sling. At least it no longer ached like a rotting tooth with the oxycodone on board. She pulled back her shoulders, ready to accept the ax belonged on her own neck. “Still, I blew it, Athena, it’s all on me. I was watching from my car, on my way around the block, expecting to pick up Craig and Cricket holding up Cummings between them. I couldn’t believe it when I saw Cummings running full-tilt out of the alley, no sign of Craig and Cricket, and I panicked, thought I could head him off. I didn’t see the light turn red, didn’t see the Volvo until it was too late. I was told the woman driving the Volvo is recovering in Washington Memorial, a concussion the worst of her injuries.”

  She swallowed. “To make it worse, it wasn’t just any driver, like some student or housewife from Foggy Bottom. No, the woman I hit is FBI Special Agent Lacey Sherlock, the one who topped the media charts several months ago. Believe me, I was public enemy number one to the cops at the Daly Building. They were ready to throw me in solitary and flush the key.”

  Athena shook her head, laughed. “Jasmine, regardless of your screwup, it could have been worse. You could be the one in the hospital. Good news is it’s been ruled an accident and you’re not in jail. Nor do they have a way to connect you with Justice Cummings. Of course, we have no way of knowing where Cummings is, and the last word from Artemis is the CIA doesn’t know, either. She’s got people out looking for him. If she finds him first, she’ll make sure he’s brought to us, as originally planned. He’s either badly hurt, or he’s hiding—from everyone, the CIA included. It would be best if we were the ones to find him, people.”

  Cricket Washburn said, “We know Cummings has to be hurt. We saw his blood smeared all over the FBI agent’s windshield.” She plowed nervous fingers through her short spikes of blood-red hair. “I don’t know how he was able to move quickly enough to hide from Craig and me, but he managed it. On the opposite street, we saw a few blood spots, but they soon disappeared. We searched the whole neighborhood, but we couldn’t find him.”

  Jasmine said, “At least Craig and Cricket had their sunglasses and hats on the whole time. They won’t be identified, even if the police check the cams in the area, try to run facial recognition.”

  Craig said, “I’ve tracked down the names of some of the people Cummings knows, but we haven’t found out yet where his wife and children are. No one’s been in his house in Fairfax. Ellie’s there, as you know, waiting for him to show.”

  Jasmine said, “If he’s gone to ground, maybe to some cheap motel where he paid with cash, we have almost no hope of finding him. Not unless he goes home to fix himself up, pack some clothes, and take off again. Then Ellie will see him.”

  Craig said, “I might be able to access the traffic cams, at least see what direction Cummings went after he was thrown off the hood, but that’s not going to be much help. The truth is, Athena, unlike the CIA, we don’t have the resources to find him.”

  “Well, if the CIA finds him first, Artemis will contact me immediately,” Athena said. “In any case, Cummings has no idea who you are or why you chased him. If he surfaces on his own and goes, say, to the police, then it’ll be a different ball game. Oh yes, Artemis has arranged quite a surprise for him at the CIA.”

  Jasmine, twisted with guilt, said, “Still, it’s my fault we don’t have Cummings. I’m very sorry, Athena.”

  Athena said, “Jasmine, Craig, Cricket, it’s over and done. Let’s review how things stand.” She held up one finger. “Metro knows your name, Jasmine, and that you’re employed at the Bexholt Group. You and I will go over how to handle the police or anyone else who interviews you. I know someone will, given you struck an FBI agent. They might check your background from all the way back in Hannibal, Missouri, to find out your father’s in prison for bank robbery. But you can tell them you’re estranged from both your parents, and none of that will matter. Your record is clean, you have a professional degree and a responsible job.” A second finger went up. “We need to be prepared for either Metro or the FBI identifying Justice Cummings as the man who left his blood on the scene. The FBI will jump on it with both feet if they find out he’s CIA, a federal employee who was being chased by parties unknown, and is now missing.” She leaned forward, splayed her palms on the table in front of her. “If they do, Artemis will see to it they get nowhere near finding out what he was working on. That we can’t allow. No way will they find out we are already negotiating a price with the Russians about your smart wall, Craig, and that Cummings is missing because he stumbled across it. Obviously, if I’m wrong, if Artemis is wrong, it could be the end.”

  Athena paused. “So, we all need to go to work as usual, continue as if nothing has happened. This will still turn out all right. Artemis has her end covered. We’ll continue to look for Justice Cummings.

  “There is something else you should know. Agent Sherlock’s husband is Agent Dillon Savich. Yes, I see you’ve heard of him as well as his famous wife. He’s very high-profile and he’s smart. We cannot underestimate him. You can count on his being interested because his wife was involved in the accident. We have to be careful he gets nothing.

  “People, there’s no turning back now, for any of us. We need to have everything
in place by Monday.”

  When Athena was alone again, she walked to the window and looked out over the rolling Virginia hills, dotted with houses and thick copses of maple and oak. She took several deep breaths. It would be all right. She was not going to let this man Cummings destroy what she’d planned so meticulously. She’d waited too long, and she’d worked too hard. It would be all right.

  8

  * * *

  WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  “I came as soon as I could,” said Dr. Emanuel Hicks as he walked into Sherlock’s private room on the third floor, her new home after being released from the ICU. He was a renowned psychiatrist and hypnotist, and an Elvis impersonator in his spare time. Luckily for the FBI, he was very happy to be in his tenth year at Quantico. He was tall and skinny as a parking meter, had to wear a pillow strapped to his belly when he was Elvis.

  “I appreciate your coming,” Savich said, and shook his hand.

  “I’m very sorry about all this, Savich.” Dr. Hicks looked at Sherlock, sound asleep and breathing easily. He took in the small bandage on her head, her pallor, her stillness. She looked peaceful, but he knew the Sherlock he liked and admired was locked away. As for Savich, Dr. Hicks knew how hard it had to be for him to keep it together. Were it his own wife, Mary, lying there with no clue who he was, who she was, he would be scared spitless. But Savich needed him as a professional now, not as a longtime friend. He said in a practiced, calm voice, “Since I have privileges here, I was able to look at her chart before I came in. You know there are excellent neurologists and psychiatrists on staff here at Washington Memorial.”

  “I don’t know any of them,” Savich said simply. “I know and trust you. She’s been asleep about an hour now since they gave her a sedative to keep her still in the MRI.” He paused, then, “As I told you, Dr. Hicks, she doesn’t know who I am, who Sean is, who she is. I hope I handled it right. We talked and I saw glimpses of her, but she doesn’t remember anything.” He stared toward her, wanting to touch her, to kiss her, to tell her to come back to him. He felt impotent and hated it. “I’m a stranger to her. The doctors didn’t find that out, I did.”