Nathan said, “Was the man a terrorist?”
A terrorist? “No,” Savich said. “He’s a very careful, very well-prepared man who deserves to be in shackles.” He added, never looking away from Sherlock’s face, “I hope no one died in that hotel.”
Sherlock jerked, took a hitching breath.
Savich felt her hand tighten briefly around his fingers before she let go again. He clasped her hand tighter, and his own breath hitched. He was terrified.
He felt Nathan’s hand on his shoulder. “I do, too, Agent. We’re here, sir.”
San Francisco General Hospital
Tuesday afternoon
Fifteen minutes later, half a dozen FBI agents rushed into the emergency room, thankfully not at all crowded, Cheney at their head. Savich was standing by the registration desk, speaking quietly to a nurse.
Cheney forced the words out: “Eve said it’s a head wound. How is she?”
Savich looked at Harry, Eve, and Griffin, with four other agents whose names he didn’t know crowding in behind them, some of their faces and clothes blackened with soot. One of them had blood smeared on his shirt. His or someone he’d pulled out of the hotel?
Virginia Trolley and Vincent Delion came running in behind them.
Savich said, “She’s awake. I’m not with her because they’re doing a neurological exam and the doctor said there wasn’t room and since I couldn’t add anything useful, I needed to be out here.” He nodded to the nurse. “Nurse Blankenship is going back and forth, telling me exactly what they’re doing and why.”
“How bad is it?” Virginia Trolley came up to put her hand on his shoulder.
Savich said, “The bullet gouged a trench along the left side of her head, above her left ear.” He touched his fingers to his own head to show them. “If it had been a couple of millimeters to the right, she’d be dead.” Savich felt his throat close. He swallowed. He stood as stiff as a fence post, trying to get himself together. “She was a little groggy when I left her, but she seemed okay. They were shaving off a square of her hair so they could put stitches in.” Odd, but saying those words nearly broke him. He said nothing more. He knew he needed to stop to keep control.
Nurse Blankenship looked from Savich to the group, and said to all of them, “As I told Agent Savich, the fact that they’re ready to stitch her scalp so soon is great news. They’re not taking her to CT right away, and that means they’re not worried about a skull fracture and her neurological exam must be normal, or nearly so.”
“Is there something wrong with her exam?” Savich asked.
Nurse Blankenship hastened to say, “No, sorry—I only meant she’s had a concussion, that’s all. I tell you what, I’ll go back in and check on them again, so you’ll know what to expect, okay?”
She smiled at them all, walked quickly down the hall into Sherlock’s cubicle, and returned in under a minute. “They said she’d be going for a CT scan in a few minutes, just to be sure. The doctors say the odds are good the scan will be normal and that she’ll be staying for only a day or two, that she’ll make a complete recovery with only a small scar for a souvenir.
“Now, if all of you would repeat to Agent Savich that his wife should be up within the week, I would appreciate it.” She patted Savich’s arm and excused herself.
There was a collective sigh of relief. Harry studied Savich’s face, saw he’d finally accepted Sherlock wasn’t going to die. Savich turned toward them, focused again. “What information do you have? Do you know who shot her? Do you know what happened to Xu?”
Harry said, “A couple of Virginia’s officers who were positioned two blocks up on California ran into a young guy waving his fists and yelling after a white Infiniti that was fishtailing down the street. Xu had jerked open the guy’s car door, clouted him in the head, and shoved him into the road. We’ve got an APB out on the car and the license plate number.
“Xu is hurt. One of us”—Harry nodded toward Eve and Griffin—“shot him in the suite from behind a wall of flames. Agent Gaines, our maid in the hallway, said Xu was shot in the upper arm and bleeding pretty heavily when he took off down the stairs. He broke her nose but didn’t kill her. When she got herself together, she came in to help us get out, a good thing, since Xu had left a bomb to detonate when he got clear. Griffin’s singed a bit around the edges; we all are, inside and out, coughing a bit, but nothing worse.
“We followed Xu’s blood trail down the stairs to the lobby, and we were in the stairwell when he detonated the bomb. There was pandemonium in the lobby, but we didn’t stop to help, we ran directly outside to find Xu. You were already there, leaning over Sherlock.” Harry looked at the others. “That’s all we know.”
Agent Kain, who’d been one of the agents manning the van with Sherlock, said, “Sherlock spotted Xu. She didn’t say a word, jumped out of the van and took off. We ran after her fast, but there were people clogging the road and the sidewalk. Then that window blew out on the top floor, and people were screaming and trying to escape the flying shards of glass. When we got to you, Savich, you were with her along with those three teenage boys.”
A second agent said, “She had him flattened on his belly with one of the cuffs already snapped on when we heard that single shot. It sounded like a rifle, which meant it could have been fired from anywhere behind us. We’ll have a trajectory as soon as they get forensics out there.”
Savich said, “But who? Xu didn’t know we’d be there at the Fairmont waiting for him. How could he have arranged for someone with a rifle to be covering his back?”
Cheney said, “I don’t know, Savich, but how likely is it that a brand-new player suddenly shows up when Sherlock has Xu down and nearly restrained and then, for whatever reason, shoots her?”
Savich slammed his fist down on the counter. “She had him, it should be over, but now he’s in the wind again. And it must be that Xu isn’t flying solo.”
“The Chinese?” Eve asked.
“It’s possible,” Savich said, “but I don’t see the Chinese doing this. In their position, I would have shot Xu, if anyone, not Sherlock.”
Virginia Trolley said in a voice that could cool boiling water, “We’ve got half the force out near the Fairmont. Someone must have seen him, seen something. Keep the faith, Dillon.”
Cheney said, “It’s a mess at the Fairmont, the streets blocked with fire trucks and police cars. We moved your Taurus, Savich, not to worry. So far, Sherlock’s the only one they seem to have ambulanced out. There were only cuts and bruises, from what I could see.”
“The media were already there when we left,” Eve said. “It’s national by now, since it’s the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco. They’ve got everything going for them with this story—a bomber they’re calling a terrorist and an FBI agent shot in the head.”
Cheney’s cell rang. He glanced down and frowned. “It’s KTCU.” Savich watched him think for a minute, then answer. He turned away from them as he said, “Agent Stone.”
Almost immediately, Cheney said, “Yes, yes, but I’m not there. What do you know for a fact, so I’ll know if I can add anything?”
Smart, Savich thought, pulling information from the media for a change.
Cheney punched off his cell, rejoined the group. “That was the anchor of the six-o’clock news. He told me only a corner suite on the sixth floor of the Fairmont was badly damaged. Naturally, he had no idea it was Xu’s suite. I didn’t tell him I already knew from my own people it was completely gutted, a lot of smoke and water damage on that whole floor, but he did tell me the fire’s out.
“The anchor wanted to know if a terrorist was holed up in the Fairmont and if he managed to shoot the FBI agent in the street. He wondered if the FBI had bombed the suite to get the terrorist to come out.”
Cheney grinned at them. “Where do they get this stuff? Like the FBI car
ries grenades around with them in their holsters. I told him I was only now finding out anything, and to give me an hour.”
Eve asked, “What will you do when he calls back?”
“I’m going to give him our photograph of Xu to put on TV. Given the bomb was at the Fairmont, you can bet everyone will be watching the news to find out what happened, which means everyone will know what Xu looks like by tonight. If the media wants any more than that, I’ll tell them to talk to the police commissioner.”
“Many thanks,” Virginia said.
Cheney said, “Now, tell me about the bombs, Harry. Was the first one a hand grenade?”
Eve wondered how the devil Harry would know, when Cheney added, “Harry was in Special Forces before he joined the Bureau.”
Harry said, “It wasn’t a conventional grenade or some of us would be dead, Xu included. There was no shrapnel, too much boom, and too much blinding light. It was a flash-bang. We used those suckers a few times in Afghanistan, when the situation called for something debilitating but not fatal, like cleaning out an enemy nest.
“Flash-bangs are powerful, they’re effective, and they’re pretty small. I’ll bet Xu carried one around in his pocket, in case he ever found himself in trouble.
“I’m thinking he must have suspected something wasn’t right when he got to his room at the Fairmont; maybe our agent in the hall spooked him. Anyway, he must have had the canister in his hand when he opened the door to the suite. He threw it at us, and there was a deafening noise and a blinding light. I knew what it was, but that didn’t stop my ears from buzzing or help me see any quicker, and, of course, it hurt.
“There was instant fire everywhere, walls of it, and that was Xu’s doing, too. Flash-bangs make a great incendiary device if you wrap them in an accelerant, like Sterno in a Ziploc bag, and duct-tape the bag to the canister. It would make the canister that much bigger, but not too big to carry in a jacket pocket. The Sterno ignites and gets blasted in all directions. It’s a potent weapon.
“Since Xu knew what was coming, he had a second to turn away, prepare himself. We didn’t, but we did manage to fire through the flames even though we couldn’t see anything. Luckily, one of us hit him.”
Nurse Blankenship returned and nodded to Savich. “Agent Savich, your wife will be going to CT now, before she’s admitted to her room. You can go with her. She’ll be out in a second.”
“There she is,” Eve said.
Sherlock was lying on a gurney, a white sheet pulled up to her neck, what looked to be rolls of cotton bandage wrapped around her head. There were streaks of blood at its edge, probably from her hair. She looked pale. “Give us a moment,” Savich said to the orderly and nurse.
He slipped her hand out from under the sheet and squeezed it. “Sweetheart, are you awake?”
She whispered, “Yes. I was only resting my eyes.” She looked around at everyone. “All of you guys are here? Hey, is this some kind of party? Is it my birthday?”
Savich knew she was trying to make a joke but was too woozy to pull if off. He said, “Yes, it’s a party, and you’re the guest of honor. After you get this dinky head scan to make sure your brains are in good working order, we’re going to cut you a slice of your birthday cake.”
Her eyes dropped to half-mast, her voice faded, but Savich, who knew her as well as he knew himself, heard the whisper of humor when she said, “I sure hope it’s carrot cake.”
“Yes,” Eve said, “with butter-pecan ice cream.”
Savich leaned close. “After the scan, the doctors want you to camp out here for a couple of days. Is that okay with you?”
She closed her eyes, and her voice was starting to fade out. “I don’t think I want to stay here, Dillon. The light’s too bright and I don’t know anybody and my head hurts. Well, maybe I’ll stay if you stay with me and bring me birthday cake.” She attempted a grin. “I’ll share it with you.”
Savich smiled. “You know what? I’m going to see if you can’t camp out with Ramsey. Would you like that?”
“I like Ramsey,” Sherlock whispered. Her words sounded like they were floating up from the bottom of a well.
Harry said, “Sherlock, do you remember chasing Xu down? Tackling him?”
“Yes, of course I remember Xu. I got him on his stomach, and he was bleeding all over the place and I was cuffing him and then—” She frowned. “I saw a really bright light, it was beautiful, and then, all of a sudden, I was here getting stitched up and waiting for my birthday cake. Do you really think they’ll let me camp out in Ramsey’s room? I’ve never heard of anything like that before.”
“I’ll see if you can sit with him by the campfire.”
“Please tell me Xu didn’t get away. Please.”
Eve said, “He did, but not for long. Now neither will the man who shot you.”
Sherlock couldn’t say anything because it was suddenly all too much. She closed her eyes again and breathed deeply. The orderly said, “We need to get her to CT now, Agent Savich. You’ll have to clear it with admissions if you’d like her to stay in the Taj with Judge Dredd. You really know him?”
There was a bit of laughter, which felt very good to everyone. Cheney said, “I think it’s a great idea, her rooming with Judge Hunt. Dr. Kardak might go for it, if only to keep even more law enforcement officers out of the hospital. There’s already a battalion of marshals and SFPD officers hovering on that floor. We can fit her in without adding a single man, and still be sure she’s safe.”
Eve said, “Ramsey can get her into their poker games. Does she play?”
Savich smiled at Eve. “She’s a killer at Texas Hold ’em.”
Cheney said, “Okay, listen up, everyone. There’s no way Xu gets away from us. We’ll have his picture all over the news in an hour. He’s wounded, and he needs medical care. He’s in a stolen white Infiniti with an APB out on him. All he’s got with him is what he was carrying in his pockets. A passport, if he’s lucky. But he’s not going anywhere until he gets his wounded arm taken care of. That’s got to be where we focus.”
But it wasn’t Xu who had shot Sherlock, Savich thought.
San Francisco General Hospital
Tuesday evening
Sherlock’s head thrummed to a steady beat. If she tried to move her head, it felt like electric jolts were frying her brains. The stitches felt like they were pulling her scalp too tight. On the other hand, she was alive, and breathing trumped everything.
Savich had kept her parents away with the promise she’d be home tomorrow. Really it was Sean who’d kept them away. Her parents had looked at him and known to keep still, and put on a good show. Savich told her he’d lied clean, telling Sean his mother was staying with Molly and Emma because they were scared. Sean had listened thoughtfully to this smoothly delivered lie, Savich told her, and said, “But Papa, I want to protect Emma. Can’t I go over and stay with them, too? We can have cocoa and I can show Emma Flying Monks, my new computer game.”
Sherlock’s mother said, “But Sean, you promised to go with me to the movies tonight to see Rory and the Last Duck, don’t you remember?”
Torn between impressing Emma with his computer game and the movie, Sean was seriously conflicted until his grandfather said, “Your grandmother promised to buy me kettle corn, Sean; that’s my favorite. Yours, too, right?” and so Sean’s conflict melted away. He did think to ask, “Papa, are you coming with us?”
No, Savich told him, he was going to help his mother make Emma and Molly and the twins feel all secure, but not to worry, he’d be back to tuck Sean in. Since Sean was five years old, matters of life and death and hospital stays with a huge white bandage around a parent’s head weren’t about to be a part of his reality. When they’d wheeled Sherlock into the room, Molly had been there with Ramsey. She was horrified at what had happened, and question after question came p
ouring out until she saw Sherlock had gone quietly to sleep, providential, since the last thing she needed was Molly hovering over her.
When Sherlock woke up, the nurse gave her two Tylenol, a net, the nurse told her, to keep her safe, the only pain meds she would be getting for now. Hence the dull roar in her brain when her dinner was delivered thirty minutes later.
A fillet of sole sat in the center of a hospital plate, with half a lemon on the side, and vegetables. Who wanted vegetables when you felt down and out? When you could have been dead, your head shot off? No, you wanted ice cream, and a birthday cake, not runny chocolate pudding. She said to Ramsey, who sat in his bed eight feet from hers, “How are you surviving on the hospital food?”
He smiled, having seen the limp fish on her tray. “Since I’m Judge Dredd, one of the nurses asks me every day what I would like for dinner. The chef either makes it himself or picks it up on his way in to the hospital.”
“That’s not fair. Nobody asked me what I wanted to eat. What did you get for dinner?” Despite the hot wire slicing through her head, she leaned up. “I see now, it’s a big steak, medium. And a baked potato. This isn’t fair, it’s not right. Can I have a bite?”
Ramsey looked at the steak left on his plate, looked over at her, and said, “Nah, I’m far more in need of red meat than you are, Sherlock. I’ve got to build up my strength. Getting shot in the chest trumps a little head wound any day. Eat your fish and leave the real patients to chow down the meat and potatoes.”
Deputy Morales said from the window, a hamburger halfway to his mouth, “We were nice as could be to the nurse, but she kissed us off, said we had a per diem, and we should order in what we wanted for ourselves.”
Savich appeared in the doorway, carrying two big pizza boxes. “Ramsey told me you’d try to steal his dinner, so here you go, sweetheart, enough for you and your guards and maybe one slice for Ramsey, if he’s still hungry.” He studied her face. She was still pale, but she was sitting up, with the bandage wrapped around her hair, looking faintly ridiculous. Today he liked ridiculous; it was a great look.
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