Soon there were four guards standing around the two patients, all chowing down on pizza, including Savich’s vegetarian pie. Savich stood at the foot of the bed knowing he should eat, but his thoughts of what had happened wouldn’t let go of his brain. He couldn’t imagine eating, and so he stood there, watching her, listening to their chatter and laughter fill the room. Everyone was distracted, and that was a good thing.
The pizza tasted wonderful and settled nicely in Sherlock’s stomach, despite her headache. She saw Dillon wasn’t eating, and she wanted to tell him she was all right. He leaned down to kiss her, and she saw the fear lurking behind his smile as he said, “I’ll be back after I’ve tucked Sean in for the night.”
She took his hand. “Will you bring my birthday cake?”
“So you remember that, do you?”
She smiled at him. “Don’t forget the butter-pecan ice cream.”
There was a knock on the door. A young cop none of them had ever seen said, “Agent Savich? I’m Officer Holt. I found a folded piece of paper on the sidewalk where Agent Sherlock was shot. I took it immediately to Lieutenant Trolley. After she read it and dusted for prints, she told me to bring it to you right away.” He handed Savich the paper. “You can see it has your name printed on it, nothing more. No one has any idea who left it.”
Officer Holt looked over at Sherlock. “Hello, Agent Sherlock. I’m glad you’re okay.” He looked then at Ramsey and swallowed. “Sir, all of us are glad you’re going to be all right,” and he swallowed again.
Without thought, Sherlock turned her head to see how Ramsey was reacting to this show of adoration, and froze at the jolt of pain in her head. She managed to smile at him when Ramsey thanked Officer Holt for his concern, but her focus was on Savich as he unfolded the piece of paper.
“What’s in the note, Dillon?”
He looked up, his brow furrowed. “Remember last Thursday, that note delivered to me at the Hoover Building?”
Sherlock said, “For what you did you deserve this. What about it?”
He handed her the note.
It was quiet, the light dim in the hospital room. Sherlock and Ramsey lay quietly, waiting for the sleeping pills the nurse had just given them to pull them into sleep. The guards by the windows were reading by shrouded reading lights. Savich hadn’t returned yet from tucking Sean in. They’d brought in a cot for Savich.
Sherlock said, “Ramsey, I was going to wait until Dillon got back, but I don’t think we should put it off. We need to talk about this other person in the mix, this man who shot me—he was already here in San Francisco, waiting, I suppose until he had the setting he wanted. Shooting me—it was revenge, Ramsey. It’s got to be revenge. Against Dillon.”
No sleeping pill could compete with what she said. Ramsey’s brain snapped to full alert. “I gathered you thought that, from that bizarre note, but I don’t understand. You don’t think the man who shot you has any connection to Xu, that they don’t have anything to do with each other?”
“It’s possible, I suppose, but I don’t think so. Everything Xu has done is business to him, a matter of survival, but for the man who sent Dillon that note, it’s personal; something in the past is driving him. For what you did you deserve this. How do you like that for over-the-top drama? He wants to terrorize us; he’s taking pleasure in it.”
Ramsey turned toward her, immediately regretted it, and held himself very still. He hated the sharp pain, but he hated more having to lie like a slug, helpless and impotent. And he hated having to be shaved and bathed each morning because he wasn’t strong enough yet to take his own shower. He reminded himself both he and Sherlock were lucky to be alive. He said, “So shooting you was revenge against Savich. But why here, why now? And why you, rather than Savich himself?”
“Well, there’s more to it than that, Ramsey.” She looked up to see Dillon slip into the room through the partially open door, saw the guards move quickly, then throttle back.
Savich nodded to the guards, said quietly, “This was his second note, Ramsey, that’s what Sherlock was going to tell you. What did you call it, Sherlock? His second notice of doom? He sent me one before he shot you.”
Ramsey tried to take it in. He said slowly, “You’re saying I was this madman’s first victim? You’re saying he shot both Sherlock and me to gain revenge against you?”
Savich nodded. “The first note was delivered to me last Thursday at the Hoover Building. That night, Ramsey, at midnight, you were shot. We didn’t connect the note to you until tonight, when he proudly sent us the second identical note after shooting Sherlock.
“We couldn’t ever be sure of a motive for Xu to try to kill you in the first place. All of us wondered why shoot the judge? But his connecting your shooting to the Cahill trial, making it seem the Cahills were responsible, I’d say it was fortuitous for him. Shooting you succeeded in getting Sherlock and me to fly out to San Francisco, and that wasn’t fortuitous, it was planned. He’s been watching us ever since.”
Ramsey said, “But if the man was in Washington delivering the note to you, he’d have had to move fast to get to San Francisco and set everything up to shoot me from the beach below my house the same night. There wasn’t enough time.”
Sherlock said, “He wasn’t in Washington. He paid a young auto mechanic to deliver the note to the Hoover Building on Thursday. We found the guy who did that and brought him in, but we couldn’t track down the man who’d paid him.”
Savich said, “In fact, we know he was here in San Francisco, studying you and staying at a B-and-B in Atherton for about a week, enough time to do the reconnaissance he needed of your habits, your home, for planning the Zodiac rental, all of it. What’s terrifying is that he would have succeeded if Molly hadn’t called out to you at the last moment.”
Ramsey said, “So my being shot the same day I shut down the Cahill trial, the same day Mickey O’Rourke disappeared, it was all a coincidence?”
Savich said, “Yes, and one he took advantage of. The shooter was following your trial closely enough to decide that Thursday night was the perfect time to shoot you to throw us off making the connection to the note for a while. He couldn’t have scripted it better.”
“Like Dillon said, he’d already been here a week before any of that. And he had to have been to Washington before he came here, checking out the neighborhood around the Hoover Building, learning enough about Teddy Moody to pick him out as his mark.”
Ramsey said, “Why didn’t he leave a note with me, so you’d know this was his revenge, like he did with you?”
Sherlock said, “I imagine he was getting a real kick out of the confusion he’d created since we immediately connected your shooting to the Cahills. I guess when he shot me, he was ready to take the credit.”
Ramsey said, “And that leaves us the big question. Why me? We’ve been friends for a long time, Savich, but there are other people closer to you. That must mean the shooter has a connection to both of us.” After a moment, Ramsey said, “This is the same man who tried to kill me again in the elevator on Saturday, the same man we believed was Xu.”
Sherlock said, “And that was an act of someone who’s driven or unbalanced enough to take such a risk. Very unlike Xu.” She closed her eyes for a moment, not in pain but in thought, though sleep was pulling on her. She became aware of Dillon stroking her forearm, his touch light and comforting. She continued. “It all makes sense now. Xu was very hard to predict, even to understand. How could we profile a man, reconcile everything he had done, when he was two very separate men whose motives couldn’t be further apart?”
Ramsey said, “Then that telephone message to Molly, that wasn’t Xu, either.”
Savich said, “No. The phone call was meant to terrorize, like the notes.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment dig at me, and my family?” Ramsey said.
Savich nodded. “That, yes, and more than a little unhinged, like that photo he left of you as Judge Dredd X-ed through under the hydrangea, and the blood he left in the elevator shaft. The man makes plans, but he’s not rational. He’s deranged.”
Sherlock said, “The thing is, Ramsey, he took lots of time to plan this all out, to learn all about you. Lots of time—and that’s the key. We think he was in prison, where he’d have nothing but time to spend in the library. He told the young man who delivered the first note to Dillon to call him the Hammer. That’s a prison moniker.”
Ramsey said, “Do you think it’s someone I put away?”
There was silence in the hospital room, the two guards at the window listening intently.
Savich said, “Maybe, but it’s got to be as much about me because he picked me to send the note to, and he shot my wife. I don’t know why he went for you first, Ramsey. Forgive me, but if I’m to be blamed I would have thought he’d have gone for Sherlock first, but he didn’t. It was you.”
Sherlock said, “There’s got to be a good reason he went for you first, Ramsey. We have to figure out what it is.”
Ramsey said, “It means he’s carrying a load of rage at me, maybe more than he has against you, Savich. It could be over something he thinks we did to him together.”
Sherlock only nodded. Her head felt like a weight was pressing her down. “Yes, but what?”
Savich said, “We’ll have to find out, but not tonight. You both look ready to fold your tents. Get some sleep.”
Savich leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s mouth. “Sleep well, sweetheart. We’ll get this all figured out in the morning. Ramsey, don’t snore so loud you wake her. I’ll be back in a moment,” and Savich followed Deputy Babcock and Deputy Cluney out of the room. Deputy Babcock said, “This is hairier than my mother-in-law’s legs. Two killers, not just this Xu character. Have you told Marshal Maynard?”
“Cheney will.”
“Barbieri called a few minutes ago, said they’d found the Infiniti on one of the winding streets above Sausalito. Sounds like he was on his way to find a doctor to take care of his arm. I hope Xu hasn’t invaded someone’s home. I can’t imagine a doctor would have a fully equipped office in his own home, but I guess he’d have enough stuff to help him with an arm wound. I sure hope he hasn’t killed anyone.”
Savich said, “I hope Xu won’t think it’s prudent.”
“We’ll find out soon enough, either way,” Babcock said.
Savich said, “Xu’s got to be somewhat panicked. No, don’t listen to me, I’m too tired to think straight. He’s survived this long by staying cool and always using his brain. Everyone is focused on small medical offices and walk-in clinics, especially those with a Chinese clientele. He probably knows some doctors who cater to people at the Chinese consulate, take care of their families. I wonder if we can find out who those doctors are.”
“Probably already done,” Babcock said, “I wonder how he expects to get out of here?”
Officer Cluney said, “I would drive out of California, maybe to Utah or Nevada, stay away from the airports for a while.”
Savich said, “You’re probably right, if he’s well enough to drive that far. Now that his cover is gone and we know he didn’t shoot either Ramsey or Sherlock, it’s the second shooter we have to guard against.”
Cluney said, “If they don’t know each other, how lucky is that for Xu?”
Babcock said, “I’ll bet Xu’s putting him in high on his nighttime prayer list. Agent Savich, you can relax. With four of us around the clock, how could this second guy possibly believe he could get to either Sherlock or Judge Hunt in here?”
“How? Remember the elevator?” Savich snapped his fingers. “He came this close to killing Judge Hunt. Don’t forget, this guy prefers the elaborate over the simple and straightforward. The more convoluted and intricate he can make his plans, the bigger the rush he gets.”
Babcock said, “But he’s failed twice. Doesn’t he realize that we all know now he’s the danger and not Xu?”
Savich said, “But the only reason we do know is because he led us right to it, by shooting Sherlock with Xu in sight, and by leaving that note. Now he wants us to know.”
Babcock said, “I don’t understand why he doesn’t simply wait. Say a month, even another year. If it’s revenge we’re talking here, what’s the rush?”
Savich said, “That note was a challenge, and he’ll see himself as a failure if he doesn’t get it done before we get him. It’s payback for him, and it will be fast, whatever he does.”
“It won’t matter,” Babcock said. “Everyone guarding Judge Hunt and Agent Sherlock knows exactly what we’re dealing with now. He won’t get near either of them.”
But when Savich drew the single blanket over himself on the cot, he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t about to let Sherlock out of his sight.
If they were right and the man had been in prison, what was he in for? Murder? Who was his payback for? A son, a friend, a brother, maybe a mother? He and MAX would find out.
San Francisco General Hospital
Wednesday morning
Sherlock touched strands of bloody hair at the edge of the white bandage wrapped around her head that made her look like she’d walked out of a war zone. She wanted to do something about that before Dillon returned. She said to the nurse, “When can I get this white towel off my head? When can I wash my hair?”
“Actually, you look sort of cute with the white towel,” Nurse Washington said, patting her hand. “Once Dr. Kardak examines you, we’ll get your hair washed and change out the dressing for an adhesive strip that will cover your sutures. So how are you feeling, Agent Sherlock? Any headaches, dizziness, nausea? Were you able to sleep?”
Sherlock said, “The headache’s better this morning; it comes and goes. I felt a little dizzy when I first stood up. That’s about it.”
“Have you felt disoriented at all? Any mental side trips? Ah, here’s Dr. Kardak, to look at both you and Judge Hunt.”
Dr. Kardak said good morning to her and to Ramsey, then took her chart from Nurse Washington and hummed in approval as he read it. He looked up at her. “I heard Nurse Washington ask if you had any disorientation, any mental side trips? An interesting way of putting it, yet perfectly clear.”
“Harry Potter World might be fun, but no, I haven’t been taking any trips in my head. My orientation’s fine.”
Dr. Kardak nodded, pulled the curtain around them for privacy, and leaned down to plant his stethoscope on her chest. “You’ve had a mild traumatic brain injury,” he said. “You can expect the symptoms you’re having—what we call the post-concussion syndrome—to last a week or so, maybe longer. Now, I’m going to need your patience because we’re going to repeat the neurologic exam you had yesterday and ask you a few questions to test your memory, okay?”
“As long as we don’t forget to wash my hair,” Sherlock said.
When Dr. Kardak finished, he straightened, studied her face silently for a moment. “Your balance, your strength, your reflexes, your memory, everything looks good. I have to say, Agent, you’re the luckiest patient I’ve treated in some time. Your scan from yesterday looks normal, except for your scalp injury. To be shot in the head and sustain no structural brain injury or bleeding, no cracked skull, no visible swelling, is amazing. I would think, though, that most people who’ve had your experience might consider a career change.”
Sherlock said, “I realize I was incredibly lucky and I am immensely grateful for that. To be honest here, what happened at the Fairmont, well, I guess you could say it came out of the blue, so there was no way to do my job and avoid it.” She grinned up at him. “It could have happened to anyone.”
He said, “In that case, Agent Sherlock, I hope your luck continues for your next three lifetimes. As for your husband, I must tell
you the man’s a wreck, but, naturally, he believes he has to appear calm and in control around you. My prescription is for both of you to take a break and hug each other really tight, all right?”
Sherlock nodded and felt a stab of guilt. With so much flying around them, they couldn’t take a break, but she surely could hug him. She said, “Yes, I can do that.”
“I want you to rest this morning, and by that I mean no chatting up Judge Dredd here. If you’re not sleeping, you’re to lie here nice and calm and quiet. I’ll leave the curtain between the two of you so you’re not tempted to talk shop. With a bullet wound such as you’ve had, I like to repeat the CT scan to make sure there’s no delayed swelling or bleeding. I doubt there will be. If everything looks good I want you to continue resting this afternoon, let your brain and body settle and heal. Depending on how you feel, we can talk this afternoon about whether we’ll have the pleasure of your company through Thanksgiving, Agent Sherlock. How does it sound if we plan to release you Friday morning?”
“No can do, Dr. Kardak. I’ve got a five-year-old son who doesn’t need to see his mother lying in a hospital bed. I’d like to leave this afternoon.”
He studied her face for a moment. “Five years old, you say? What’s his name?”
“Sean. He’s the image of his papa. He plans to marry three different girls. He’s also planning on working three jobs so they’ll all be happy.”
Dr. Kardak chuckled. “Sean sounds like my kid Peter, all mouth and laughter and boundless energy. There aren’t any girls yet on Peter’s somewhat limited horizon.” He looked toward the curtain, called out, “Judge Hunt, how long have you two known each other?”
“More than five years,” Ramsey said from behind the curtain. “When I first met Sherlock, she was three months pregnant, throwing up whenever anyone in her hearing said the word pregnant.”
“Oh, goodness, I’d forgotten,” Sherlock said. “I remember belting Dillon a couple of times when he let the word slip out.”
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