Backfire

by Catherine Coulter

  She considered turning it down, but naturally, she didn’t. “Thank you, Officer Hendricks.”

  “Make that Gavin, ma’am.”

  “And you can call me Natalie.”

  He sat down beside her, and they ate pumpkin pie and chatted about nothing in particular until the football game came on. Gavin forked down another bite of pie, closed his eyes, and hummed. “Oh, man, that is fine. I hear Emma Hunt made the pie. Emma’s a whiz on the piano and a good cook. I’d say the kid’s got it made.”

  They looked over to where Emma sat beside her father, her small white hand on his forearm.

  Her two little brothers, Cal and Gage, seriously cute identical twins, sat at the large table, currently hemmed in by three large adults and another little boy, Sean Savich. He would grow up to be as handsome as his dad, Natalie thought, looking from him to his father, Agent Dillon Savich.

  “Emma Hunt’s playing with the San Francisco Symphony next Wednesday,” Gavin continued, took another big bite of his pumpkin pie, and shook his head. “Hard to believe. Look at those small hands. What is she, eleven, twelve?”

  “She’s eleven, Judge Hunt told me. He’s so proud of her he would pop his own buttons if the hospital gown had any. All he can talk about is being well enough to go to see her perform next Wednesday.”

  “He’ll make it,” Hendricks said. “The man’s strong, he’s got an iron will. I’ve gotten to know him. You know, I keep seeing him jumping down from the judge’s bench in his black robes, flattening those yahoos who invaded his courtroom.”

  “I remember that. Goodness, everybody does. It was an incredible thing he did,” Natalie said. Her wrist pager beeped. She smiled at Officer Hendricks—Gavin—rose, and thanked the cooks for feeding her an extraordinary dinner.

  Natalie paused in the doorway for a moment, and looked back. She marveled at the bonhomie and goodwill they were all managing, even with that woman lurking in everyone’s mind, out there making more plans for murder. Even if the goodwill was paper-thin, it was valuable. She gave a last smile to Gavin.

  Natalie took care of the emergency—Mr. Pitt in room 306B was hyperventilating at the news his grandson had happily delivered about his marrying a Las Vegas dancer—and walked back to the nursing desk. She studied the photo they had of Charlene Cartwright again. Soon this woman’s face would be more familiar to people than the governor’s. The woman had once been pretty, Natalie thought, but now she was beyond that, an odd thing to think, but it was true. She touched her fingertip to the smoker’s lines fanning out from her eyes, the deep scored lines about her mouth. There was a message in the woman’s eyes, wide pale green eyes, flat as a stagnant pond. Those eyes scared Natalie to her toes. The message was, quite simply, both the promise of death of anyone she wanted gone and the acceptance of her own death, should it be demanded of her.

  She realized she’d seen eyes like Charlene Cartwright’s once before during a six-month stint in a psych ward. She hadn’t wanted to think about what was going on behind those eyes.

  —

  Ramsey was asleep, finally, an exhausted sleep that worried Nurse Natalie Chase a bit, but then she managed a reassuring smile at all his family hovering around his bed. “Don’t worry. His vital signs are fine. His football team lost, that’s what flattened him.”

  They all smiled and eased.

  When Dr. Kardak came in a moment later to have the small slice of pumpkin pie he’d been promised, he looked down at the sleeping Ramsey. “I’d say he had too much fun.” He looked over at Sherlock, lifted her hair off the butterfly strips she’d pressed over the sutures, and, thankfully, left them alone. “Still feeling well, I take it, Agent Sherlock?”

  “Fit as a fiddle,” she said, then, “I always wondered why a fiddle was fit? I mean, what does health have to do with a musical instrument?” and Dr. Kardak, forking down a bite of pumpkin pie, swallowed and smiled. “Not a clue.” He looked one last time at the sleeping Ramsey, nodded to the rest of them, and left.

  Sherlock was tired. She wished she could curl up next to Ramsey and take a nice long winter snooze, but she knew it wasn’t to be.

  Savich said, “You look burned out, sweetheart. You ready to go home to bed?”

  “Are you offering another bedtime story, Dillon?”

  He lightly touched his fingers to her cheek, studied her exhausted face. “I think it’s got to be sleep without dessert for you tonight.” He turned to Eve and Harry, who were studying Charlene’s photo.

  Eve said, “A woman, all the time it was a blasted woman. I mean, it was okay for Xu to be Sue for a while, but Charlene Cartwright is giving our sex a bad name. And look at us, Sherlock, you’ve got an aching head, and I’m still nursing the bruises she shot into my Kevlar in the elevator. Do you think she’s nuts?”

  Savich slowly nodded. “She is now. Before she married her husband? If I had to venture a guess, I’d say no.

  “You’re right to be worried about Charlene. Xu has no more reason to be here that I can see, unless he’s too weak to drive. Either way, he’ll be out of the picture for a while unless we’re lucky enough to find him.

  “Charlene’s a different matter. We are her purpose, her focus. She needs this fight or she might as well float off the planet, that or kill herself. But you know, I really don’t think she’ll give it up until we bury her.” He pulled Sherlock close, closed his eyes for a moment.

  He said, “All of us know that informants solve most of our cases. Since her photos are everywhere, we’ve got to hope she stays close.”

  Skyline Motel

  El Cerrito, California

  Nine o’clock Thursday night

  Charlene looked through the glass into the small motel reception office. Her luck was holding. Only one skinny guy was inside, and from the description Joe had given her, it was the same guy who’d been deep in a computer game when Joe had checked in. He said he remembered the kid’s name because it was so weird. Okay, she’d told him, but Jerol wasn’t as weird as Xu, and she was going to call him Joe. He’d smiled up at her. And she’d started singing Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue.”

  She didn’t know where she was taking Joe just yet, but it was too dangerous staying this close to the city any longer, now that his photo was plastered all over the TV. She figured he needed another couple of days before he’d be good for much, not that she needed him to help her, but he was smart, had lots of experience. If he could learn to trust her, maybe they could stay together for some time, like she’d planned to stay with Sonny. She’d be with Sonny now if not for that little kid, Emma. What a snooty name that was. Wasn’t she to blame, too, for Sonny’s being dead? It wasn’t Sonny’s fault he had this problem. The kid shouldn’t have run away from him, selfish little cow, when she knew—Charlene shook her head to get her brain back on track. She was losing herself more often now in her thoughts. She’d think something, and then the thought seemed to grow and change, to branch out in all directions, like a spin-off of a TV show.

  She focused on Joe, and her brain seemed to flip a switch. He really knew these FBI agents, he told her, knew how they thought, knew what they’d do in any given situation. He’d stayed one step ahead of them, no problem, just as she had. But you didn’t know about that little redheaded agent who slammed you down on your face, did you? Without me, the train would have left the station—you’d be on it dressed in shackles and handcuffs.

  He knew that as well as she did, so she didn’t say it out loud. He’d thanked her twice already, and it came easily to him. She found him charming. She’d known Joe for such a short time, and she already liked him a lot better than she’d ever liked her miserable husband, bad memory that he was. Joe said he liked the big diamond on her pinkie finger, and she’d laughed, told him it wasn’t real, told him it was as fake as her vicious long-dead husband who’d given it to her and that’s why she wore it, to re
mind her of that wonderful day she’d shot his face off. And he’d asked her about the other ring she wore that looked like it belonged to a religious order. She’d fallen silent, fingering the ring, then said, “It belonged to my son, before Ramsey Hunt murdered him.” And that’s when he’d asked her to tell him the whole story.

  When he’d finally fallen into a restless slept last night, she stretched out on the bed beside him and listened to him breathe. She realized she hadn’t slept beside a man in a very long time. It felt strange to hear another’s breathing so close beside her. He woke her up once when he started talking in his sleep. And now she knew something about who and what this man was—not only a killer, as she was, but mixed up with the Chinese—a spy, maybe? And he was piss-in-the-pants afraid of them. I end up with the weirdest people, Charlene thought. Her son was kind of weird, of course, but he wasn’t stupid, he was—off. He hadn’t deserved to die, hadn’t deserved to be murdered by that miserable judge.

  Her familiar rage kicked in, made her mind hiss and crackle. It wasn’t right what happened to Sonny. What had happened to him was the real crime. Imagine a federal judge murdering a man in his hospital bed? And every one of those crooked cops had covered for him, nothing but sympathy for him because of pathetic little Emma. Emma—Charlene hated that name now. She figured the kid and her mom had moved to a safe house after she’d left that phone message for little Molly, since when she’d last driven by, the house was empty. She’d find them, follow the kid from school, maybe.

  Emma, Emma, Emma, the name drummed louder and louder in Charlene’s brain. Get it back, get it back, focus, focus.

  She blinked, again focused on Joe. He’d been thrashing around, a fever, and she’d fetched him three aspirin and some water, and cupped his head. He never opened his eyes, but she already knew his eyes showed a life ancient with violence, far more than she could imagine. As she’d looked down at him in the dim motel room light she realized he might have made a fine son. There was something about Joe Keats, whose real name was Xu—maybe his will to survive, she wasn’t sure—but he impressed her. Regardless of what he was or what he’d done, he was a man who didn’t whine or complain or strike out. Well, she’d see about striking out.

  He healed amazingly fast, she’d thought, when she’d tended his wound earlier. The flesh around the wound was pink, and healthy-looking. She hadn’t seen any blood crusted around the stitches. And now Joe was sleeping. He’d sworn to her he could drive. She’d told him he should get rid of that blue Honda he’d lifted in Sausalito. As soon as they were away, he’d told her—best not to leave it at the motel. Well, if he got himself killed because of that stupid car, it was his business. She was driving her own car, bought and paid for in Stockton from a little old man going into a nursing home.

  The bell tinkled when Charlene pushed open the door and strolled into the motel office, cash in her hand. Jerol was sitting behind a counter loaded down with piles of brochures for local sights. Joe was spot-on about him—Jerol was playing a computer game, all his attention on some military figures fighting on the screen, its gunshots, loud bangs, and booms punctuated by his grunts and cheers.

  Joe’s Beretta was snug against her side, just in case, since you never knew when some snake might up and try to bite you.

  She spotted an ancient TV propped up on a portable serving table. It was tuned to a local news channel. The weather report was segueing into the news. The spit dried in her mouth. Her photo appeared on-screen followed by Joe’s. The volume was turned low, but she could hear the newsman talking about Joe. Hurry, get checked out or the moron might look up, see the photos, and call the cops. She moved to stand squarely between the kid and the TV.

  “Hey, I was looking at that bad guy on TV.”

  Well, that settles that, she thought, feeling the Beretta warm against her palm. No choice now.

  She smiled and said, her voice loud to drown out the TV, “Hey, do you have any brochures on Six Flags Discovery Kingdom up in Vallejo? That’s the new name of the place, right? I’m thinking my friend and I would like to check it out tomorrow.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Jerol Idling said, his voice impatient. He’d been close to scoring another hundred points and needed only one more good kill, but he’d happened to look up at the TV when she came in and there was a photo of some guy and they were blaring how dangerous he was, how he’d set off the Fairmont fire and murdered some people, and the weird thing was, the man looked familiar. Jerol knew he’d seen him, but where?

  Charlene studied his face as she said, “My friend’s name is Joe—” She stalled. What had Joe called himself when he’d checked into this place? Cribbs, that was it. “I’m with Joe Cribbs. He’s in two-seventeen.”

  Jerol wanted to see the man’s photo again on the TV, but this woman was standing right in front of him. “Mr. Cribbs didn’t say anything about a friend coming.” His mom hated guests coming in unannounced ever since six college students had snuck into one room to spend the weekend. He’d been only seventeen at the time, but he still remembered the mess they’d made. Not that this old lady was likely to make a mess, not like those beer-guzzling yahoos, but still. “When did you show up?”

  Rude little bugger, Charlene thought, leaned toward the kid, showing him a cleavage she’d learned to make by pushing in her elbows and leaning over. She could push them nearly to her tonsils, and there weren’t that many wrinkles. The two truckers in Bakersfield she’d tried it out on were distracted quickly enough. “Last night. So you got any brochures?”

  “Yeah, we even got brochures for mud baths in Calistoga if you want. Is Mr. Cribbs feeling better? He looked pretty bad when he checked in yesterday. I mean, he was all hunched over, and I knew he didn’t feel good. Do you know, he looks kind of like—”

  Charlene said quickly, “He’s fine, only a flu of some sort.”

  “Hey, aren’t you a little old for Mr. Cribbs? I mean, like his mother?”

  Well, now, that’s quite enough out of you. Charlene raised her hand and shot him in the face with Xu’s Beretta. As she fired, she jumped back. She didn’t want his blood to splatter on her clothes.

  Judge Sherlock’s home

  Pacific Heights, San Francisco

  Thursday night

  Savich punched off his cell. He watched Sean happily playing an NFL video game with his grandmother, who knew squat about football, and he was winning. He wondered if Sean was smart enough to be on the 49ers’ side in the game and not the Redskins’. He leaned down and said quietly to Sherlock, “Cheney said they’re getting about fifty calls an hour on the hotline with sightings of Xu and/or Charlene. The SFPD has provided some manpower to sift through the calls, since the field office hasn’t the staff to do it.”

  “At least we can discount the calls that have Xu walking around, since he isn’t,” Sherlock said. She rubbed her hands over her arms.

  “Cold?”

  “No, I guess someone walked over my grave. I wonder where that saying comes from. It’s pretty gruesome.”

  “But descriptive. What did you feel?”

  “I’m worried that something bad’s going to happen, Dillon. Soon.”

  He didn’t say anything. He pulled her to her feet, then sat down and brought her down on his lap and held her. He knew she was right, something bad had to happen, with two armed and desperate people out there, their pictures all over TV.

  After they got Sean bathed and buttoned into his Spider-Man pajamas, they got him down but, unfortunately, not out. He couldn’t stop talking. He was too excited about how he’d stomped his grandmother at NFL football. He had, to Savich’s surprise, gone for the Patriots. Savich finally sang him his favorite song of all time, guaranteed to put him out by the end of the first verse—“You’ve Got a Friend in Me” from Toy Story.

  Sherlock was grinning when Sean’s eyes closed. “Every time,” she whispered.

/>   They were getting ready for bed when Savich’s cell rang.

  “Savich here.”

  He was quiet, listening, his expression unchanging, but Sherlock saw his eyes darken. The bad something had happened.

  She looked down at her watch. It was an hour and a half short of midnight on Thanksgiving night.

  Skyline Motel

  El Cerrito, California

  Friday, one minute after midnight

  Eve looked at the cluster of cop cars surrounding the motel office, parked at all angles throughout the lot. The few motel guests were grouped together, talking, probably trying to figure out what had happened. They knew enough, Eve thought, looking at the M.E.’s white van. They just didn’t know who had shot Jerol.

  After they’d spoken to Mrs. Idling, Eve and Harry had come outside, primarily to get out of the way of the El Cerrito forensic team and the M.E. She said to Harry, “I hate this. That young man is dead because he must have recognized Xu on TV. But what I don’t understand is why Xu came back to the office and shot him. Why not simply leave? Why even come to the office in the first place?”

  Harry said, “Maybe Xu couldn’t be sure about him, didn’t want to chance him making a phone call. The kid was another loose end.” He watched them wheel young Jerol Idling out, already zipped into a green body bag. Savich and Sherlock and Cheney followed. They were speaking to the El Cerrito police chief, Glenis Sayers.

  Eve said to Harry, “When Chief Sayers’s detectives arrived at the scene, they found the name Joe Cribbs with the license plate number that Jerol had written down for him next to it. When they matched it to the blue Honda that was stolen in Sausalito on Tuesday, they called her. Bless her, she called Cheney right away, so it’s thanks to her we’re in the mix at all.”

  They watched El Cerrito police officers crowding around the chief, one of them with his arm around Mrs. Idling’s shoulders. She was plastered against him. They could hear her sobs from where they stood. Life can be snuffed out from one moment to the next, Eve thought. It was horrible and scary, and true for each and every human being on this earth.