The Beginning

by Catherine Coulter

  A woman said, “Give her some water.”

  Someone raised her head. She felt cold water on her lips and opened her mouth. She choked, slowed down. She drank and drank until finally the water was dribbling down her chin.

  “Now can you talk to me?”

  “The light,” she whispered. “Please, the light.”

  The same woman’s voice said, “It must be hurting her.”

  The light was gone in the next instant and it was now shadowy and dim. She sighed with relief. “That’s better. Where’s Dillon?”

  “I’m right here. You scared me out of a good year at the gym. We were both doing fine until you had the nerve to pass out on me.”

  “I didn’t mean to do that. It was weak and unnecessary. I’m sorry. Does my health coverage take care of the paramedics and the emergency room?”

  “I doubt it. I think it will come out of your pay. Now, here’s Dr. Breaker. He got to your house just as the paramedics were pulling out, claims he was speeding to get there. Turns out he has admitting privileges here at Washington Memorial.”

  “Your voice made me quiver—all dark and soft, like falling into a deep, deep well. If I were a criminal, I’d say anything you wanted to keep you talking to me like that. It’s a wonderful voice. Plummy—that’s how a writer would describe your voice.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Agent Sherlock. I’m Dr. Breaker.”

  He shined a penlight in her eyes, felt the bumps on her head, and said over his shoulder to Dillon, “She’s not going to need any stitches, just some of my magic tape. Scalp wounds tend to really bleed.”

  “They bleed like stink.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Interesting way of saying it.”

  “It’s what the man said. And he said it in a southern way. He drawled out stink into two syllables.”

  She’d already told him that, but he said, “That’s good, Sherlock. Anything else?”

  “Not yet, Savich. Hold off a bit. Let me clean her up, then you can talk her ear off.” He cleared his throat. “She wasn’t raped, was she?”

  “No, I wasn’t. I’m not dead, Dr. Breaker. You can speak to me.”

  “Well, you see, Agent, I owe everything to Savich here and nothing at all to you. If he wants me to report to him, he’s got it.”

  “I report to him. You report to him. Soon the president will report to him. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. My head hurts.”

  “I’ll bet it does. Lie still now. When you first came in, we did a CT scan. Not to worry, it was normal. We always do a CT scan when there’s a head injury, to check for evidence of bleeding. You didn’t have any. What happened to your arm? What’s this sling for?”

  “A knife wound,” Savich said. “It’s nearly well now. Happened a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Why don’t you let her heal before you send her into the arena with the monsters again?”

  She laughed. There was nothing else to do.

  THE next time she heard anything, it was a strange man speaking.

  “When you roared out of the club like a bat out of its belfry, I thought Sally was going to have Marvin tackle you. You scared us, Dillon. This is Sherlock?”

  “Yes, that’s her in all her glory.”

  “She looks like a little mummy.”

  She realized that there was a huge bandage over the cut in her scalp. She raised her hand to touch it, but to her disgust, she didn’t have the strength. Dr. Breaker was right. It wasn’t fair that she had to be hurt again before she’d healed completely from the other time. Her hand fell, only again Dillon caught it and laid it gently at her side.

  “You alive, Sherlock?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m really tired of this, sir. At least last time in that Boston hospital I was sitting up the whole time.”

  “Don’t whine. You’ll live.”

  “She calls you ‘sir’? Do you require that all your people call you sir?”

  “No, only the women. It makes me feel powerful.”

  “He’s lying,” she said, cracking open her eyes. To her relief, the light in the room was dim. “He takes all the women to the gym and stomps them into the floor. The ‘sir’ stuff is my idea. I hope it makes him feel responsible, and guilty.”

  “I don’t feel guilty. I walked you home. You want me to believe I should have taken you inside? Checked all your closets and looked under the bed? Well, maybe from now on I will. You attract trouble, Sherlock, too much of it.” But he sounded guilty, really guilty. She wanted to tell him not to be ridiculous, but he said quickly, “This is Special Agent James Quinlan. We go way back together.”

  “You make it sound like we’re nearly to retirement, Savich. Hi, Agent Sherlock.” He took her hand in his, a strong hand, with calluses on his thumbs. She’d seen a web of scars on Dillon’s fingers and hands: fine, pale white scars. He’d told her he whittled. Whittled what?

  “You call him Savich, not Dillon.”

  “Yeah, I always thought Dillon sounded too wussy, too soft, so to toughen him up I never called him that. Hey, what’s in a name?”

  “He was with you at that place called The Cove?”

  “Nah, he just came in on the deal when most of the fun was over.”

  “That’s a lie. I saved Sally.”

  “That’s true, he did help. A little bit. Dillon’s always there to back me up.”

  She said, “You’re Sally’s husband?”

  “Yes, she’s mine. I’ve got to tell you, Agent Sherlock, I don’t like any of this. You’re a target and we’ve got to find out why.”

  “None of us likes it, Quinlan,” Savich said. “Don’t act proprietary. She’s not in your unit. I will get to the bottom of this. Hey, Sherlock, you do look like a mummy. You want some more water before I start grilling you again? I’ll use my special voice.”

  Neither man said anything until she’d drunk her fill. Then Quinlan laughed when Savich said to her, “Having you suck on a straw is better than trying to balance you on the edge of the cup. You don’t drool so much.”

  “Because you tried to dump the entire glass of water down my throat that first time—” she broke off, gave him a silly grin.

  Quinlan said, “Not just yet, Agent Sherlock. Er, did you know that Sally and I were married a year last month—in October? Savich here found us the wedding date and the church.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “Well, I was kind of out of it at the time and Sally was so worried about me that she didn’t even think about marrying me. So Savich had to take care of it.”

  “What he means to say is that he had a bullet in his heart and couldn’t do much but press more morphine into his vein. As for Sally, she probably only agreed to marry him because she felt sorry for him.”

  She smiled at that, and thankfully, it didn’t hurt. “Oh goodness. Have I gotten into the wrong career?”

  “You’re off to a good start,” Quinlan said. “Wounded twice and you’ve been out of training only what? A month? Hey, don’t worry. I’ve made it to thirty-three, same as Savich here.”

  They heard voices outside. Quinlan raised an eyebrow and said, “I think my whirlwind of a wife has just blown in. The guard you’ve got out there doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “No indeed,” said a very pretty young woman about Lacey’s own age as she came into the room. She had dusty blond hair, clasped with barrettes behind her ears, and blue eyes that looked soft and tender, and had seen too much. “Don’t blame Agent Crammer. He knows me. He helped me barbecue those half a dozen corn on the cob last month, remember, James?”

  “Our venture into vegetarian barbecuing,” James Quinlan said with disgust and poked Savich’s arm. “Just for you I had to barbecue corn on the cob.”

  Savich said, “Hey, Sally, this is Sherlock. She’s the one who needed your decorating help until she had it done herself. She called up one of those expensive designers and the guy tripped all over himself to please her.”

  Lacey felt a soft hand ligh
tly stroke her forearm. “You certainly scared the sense out of Dillon here. I was watching him on the phone, and he turned white, threw the phone down, and ran out of the club. Ms. Lily thought he was so horny he couldn’t hold himself back another second. As for Fuzz the bartender, he shook his head and said Savich should have a beer occasionally, it would make him more mellow. Marvin the bouncer, said he was glad Savich didn’t drink. He never wanted to have to try to bounce him.”

  Sherlock said, “I’d like to meet these people. Dillon said he went there to support Agent Quinlan.”

  “Oh, sure, but it’s not just that, he—”

  “Now, Sally,” Savich interrupted her without apology, “Sherlock here is looking as though she’s ready to fall through the railing. Let’s leave her alone. She needs to rest. Ah, here’s Dr. Breaker. Ned, your patient is looking glassy-eyed.”

  “Out,” Dr. Breaker said, not looking at any of them. When they were alone, he said quietly as he took her pulse, “I didn’t intend for you to begin partying so soon, Agent Sherlock. Hey, where’d you get that neat name?”

  “My dad. He’s a judge. I understand that lawyers hate to be in his courtroom. They say it scares their clients to death, being up in front of a guy named Judge Sherlock.” She smiled up at him, then closed her eyes, her head falling to the side.

  Dr. Breaker gently laid her hand on the bed. He checked her eyes. He stood quietly and studied her face. Then he nodded. Everything was fine. She would recover. He had only one foot out her door when Savich was in his face, saying, “Well?”

  “No ‘well’ about it, Savich. She’ll be fine. She’s out now and should stay out until morning, with the medication she’s had. Nasty business. The guy could have killed her pounding her head on the floor the way he did, to say nothing of hitting her head with the butt of a gun.”

  Savich sighed, looking down at his clasped hands. “Thanks again for coming so quickly. How long will she be in here?”

  “Another day, I’d say. As I told you, the CT scan was normal. No bleeding, no abnormalities that any of the radiologists could see. I’ll reevaluate her again in the morning. Now I’m home to bed.”

  When Dr. Breaker disappeared into the elevator, Quinlan said, “This is a strange business, Savich. You want to tell me about it now?”

  Savich looked at two of his best friends and said slowly, “I’m in deep trouble.”

  “What does that mean?” Sally said, sitting on the bench beside him.

  Savich shook his head. “Listen, you guys, thanks for coming down. I think I’ll stay here. One of the nurses offered me a bed. I’d feel better with Crammer out here and me inside her room. She’d really be safe then.”

  “You’ve got no idea who’s behind all this?”

  “It could be someone involved with Marlin Jones; that makes the most sense. But who? He’s a real loner from what we know. And why would Marlin care if she left town or not? Other than Marlin, there’s no one else out there waving a flag. Well, there is someone else. We’ll see.” To Savich’s relief, neither Sally nor Quinlan asked him more questions.

  An hour later, he was lying on his back on a very hard cot, listening to her even breathing. She moaned once, sending him to his feet in an instant and to her bedside, only to see that she was still asleep. He stood there, looking down at her, white and bandaged, an IV in her arm. She twitched, her hand clenching into a fist, then relaxing again. He didn’t like any of this. Why did that guy want to hear what she knew about Marlin Jones? It made no sense. If someone else had killed Belinda, one of her family, then it would make sense that they’d want her out of the way. But then why would he or she hire that man to tell Sherlock that Marlin was innocent? Surely if he thought enough about it, examined every little detail, he would find an answer. But all he could think about now was listening carefully to her breathing. He lightly touched his fingertips to her jaw. It was a khaki green. He stepped back.

  He lay back down, felt the smooth cold of his gun next to his hand, and kept listening to her until finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, he fell asleep.

  “I want to go home.”

  “Now, Agent Sherlock, I think another full day would be just the thing for you. The medical staff likes having FBI agents in here. It makes them feel important. Ah, and a bit on the superior side since they’re still on their feet and you, an agent, aren’t.”

  “You’ve got to be making that up. The nurse this morning was very sweet when she poked me with a needle. And it wasn’t in the rear end, thank God. Listen, Dr. Breaker, it’s already four o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve been counting sheep since nine o’clock this morning. I’m fine. My head hurts just a bit, but nothing else, not even the cut on my head. Please, Dr. Breaker, I want to go home.”

  “Let’s talk about it a bit more,” he said, backing away from the bed.

  She swung her legs over and sat up. “I need some clothes, Dr. Breaker.”

  “Keep your socks on. I’ve got clothes for you, Sherlock. Ned told me you’d probably demand to take off.”

  She looked down at her bare foot. “I don’t even have any socks, just this flimsy hospital gown that’s open in the back.”

  Savich grinned at her. “Well, Ned, shall I take her off your hands?”

  “She’s yours, Savich. She’ll be fine. She needs another day taking it easy and these pills for any pain.” He handed Savich the bottle of pills.

  “Good-bye, Agent Sherlock. That’s a weird name. If I were you, I’d have it changed. How about Jane Sherlock?”

  “That wasn’t funny, Ned,” Savich said, but Dr. Breaker was chuckling. “I’ve never before had the chance to say that. It’s an old joke, you know.”

  “Yes,” Sherlock said. “I know.”

  “Heard it, huh?”

  “I’ve heard all of them. Thank you, Dr. Breaker. Dillon, give me my clothes and see Dr. Breaker out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Savich stayed out until she opened the door. He was talking to Agent Crammer, a ruddy-faced, barrel-chested young man who had a degree in accounting from the University of Pennsylvania.

  She eyed them. When Savich looked up, he took in her outfit and grinned. “Not bad, huh? You won’t be arrested by the fashion police.”

  He’d brought her a dark green silk blouse and a pair of blue jeans, a blue blazer and a pair of low-heeled boots that she’d only worn one time. She liked the outfit but would never have picked it out. It made her look too—

  “You look real sharp, Agent Sherlock,” Crammer said.

  “Yeah,” Savich added, “real sharp. Cute even.”

  “A Special Agent shouldn’t look anything but competent and trustworthy. I’ll go home and change.”

  “With that bandage on your head, you’re not going to make it into the competence hall of fame. Best settle for cute. At least it’s only a big Band-Aid now.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Crammer, thanks for keeping watch.”

  They made her ride downstairs in a wheelchair.

  “You ready?”

  She stared at a sexy red Porsche. “That’s yours?”

  “Yes, it’s mine.”

  “How do you fit into it?”

  Whatever he’d expected her to say, evidently that wasn’t it, because he chuckled. “I fit,” he said only and opened the door for her.

  He did fit. “This is wonderful. Douglas drives a black 1990 Porsche911. Every time I drove that dratted car, I got a speeding ticket.”

  “They do that to you if you don’t watch it. Now, Sherlock, you aren’t going home yet.”

  “I have to go home. I have plants to water—”

  “Quinlan will water your plants. He’s magic with plants. He’ll probably even sing to them. Sally says she expects those African violets of his to try to get into bed with them. Don’t worry about your plants.”

  “Where do you want me to go? A safe house?”

  “No. You’re coming home with me.”

&n
bsp; TWENTY-TWO

  “No one followed us, and yes, I saw you looking too. Forget the baddies for the moment. What do you think of my humble abode?”

  “I forgot about anybody following us the moment I stepped in here. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” She raised her face and splayed her fingers in front of her. “It’s filled with light.”

  It wasn’t a simple two-story open town house. There were soaring pale-beamed ceilings with huge skylights, all the walls painted a soft cream. The furnishings were beige, gold, and a dozen shades of brown. The oak floors were dotted with Persian carpets, the colors soft, mellow, old. A winding oak stairway covered with a running Tabriz carpet in multiple blues went up the stairs. There was a richly carved wooden oak railing running the perimeter of the landing.

  “Dillon,” she said slowly, turning to look at him for the first time since she’d stepped into this magic place, “my house is to this as a stable is to Versailles. This place is incredible; I’ve never seen anything like it. You have unplumbed depths. Oh dear, I’m not feeling so good.”

  She wasn’t nauseous, thank goodness, but she did collapse into one of his big, soft, buttery brown leather chairs, close her eyes, and swallow several times. He put her feet on a matching leather hassock.

  “You need to eat. No, you need to rest. But first I’ll get you some water. How about some saltine crackers? My aunt Faye always fed saltines to my pregnant female relatives. What do you think?”

  She cocked open an eye. She sighed and swallowed again. “Maybe a saltine wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  He covered her with a rich gold chenille afghan, tucking it around her feet on the leather hassock, and took off to the kitchen. She hadn’t seen the kitchen. She wondered if its ceiling went up two stories like the rest of the house.

  After she ate a saltine and drank some water, she said, “I think the FBI pays you too much money. You could open this place to the public and charge admission.”

  “I’m poor, Sherlock. I inherited this house and a bit on the side from my grandmother. She was an artist—watercolors and acrylics.”

  “Was she a professional? What was her name?”