Savich was thinking of his father, a man who’d marveled at this ability in his son because he, Buck Savich, had been a live wire, never still, always on the move. Savich looked over at Sherlock. He could practically see wild waves of energy jumping off her. He knew she was well-trained, an excellent shot, and blessed with great reflexes, but he couldn’t help feeling the familiar punch of fear in his gut whenever she was in danger. He doubted it would ever fade. What amazed and pleased him was that she felt the same way about him.
Why wasn’t there another sound? Maybe because there was nothing there. But he didn’t believe that for a second. He’d wager Makepeace was standing still as a rock, like they were, listening as intently as they were. He had to know they were in the house. Did he also know about the cops outside? Probably. Ah, but he couldn’t be sure they were on to him. He had to come out of the corridor and onto the second-floor landing. He had to make a move, it only made sense. Surely he was waiting for Julia to come upstairs. Did he have any idea why they were here? Savich bet he knew exactly why they were here—how, he didn’t know, but Makepeace knew.
One eternal minute passed, then another. It seemed like a decade. Makepeace had to know something was wrong by now. It had been too long since anyone had made any noise. Then Savich knew why. “Down, Sherlock!”
An explosion rocked the house. Smoke and flames shot at them from the upstairs, debris spewing onto the landing and stairs from the corridor to the left. Smoke billowed down the stairs, blanketing them. This wasn’t for show—not like at the Mariner, mostly smoke and noise—this was a huge blast, meant to destroy, meant to kill. There was another explosion more distant, from the corridor to the right, probably from Julia’s bedroom at the end of the hall. Her bedroom was right over the kitchen.
Plaster fell in large chunks from the ceiling, walls heaved and bowed. Savich grabbed Sherlock’s hand and together they ran through the billowing black smoke gushing all around them. They heard the huge house shudder, the sound of collapsing ceilings and walls and the crackling of flames, gaining purchase now, spreading fast. Heat swooped down from the second floor, swallowing the air.
The kitchen ceiling was crashing down in big chunks, the beams still holding, but now in flames. Black smoke was filling the room.
They saw Cheney and Julia running toward the back door, wet dish towels pressed against their faces, Cheney trying to keep Julia behind him.
“We’ve got to cover them!” Savich shouted and raced toward them.
Cheney and Julia burst out of the screened door, and were running, bent over, toward the flower-covered brick patio, when a bullet struck Cheney in the chest and knocked him back against the house. He lurched sideways, managed to grab Julia and flatten her against the house, twisting to slam his body against hers.
Another bullet struck him in the center of the back. They heard him grunt, but he still pressed hard against Julia, covering her as best he could.
Outside, Savich peeled to the right, Sherlock to the left, separating themselves as targets, trying to get Makepeace between them, firing steadily toward the back of the property, the only place where Makepeace could have found cover.
“Get down!” Savich yelled as Cheney began to turn, his gun in his hand.
“No, Cheney, stay with Julia! Get down!” Savich shouted again, still firing. He saw Cheney and Julia sliding down the wall onto the patio, between two big ceramic flowerpots that provided them some cover. A bullet struck one of the pots, shattering it, spewing dirt, primroses, and shards of ceramic into the air.
Flames and smoke billowed out of the upstairs windows and through the open back door. Chunks of burning wood crashed down onto the patio behind them. Savich and Sherlock emptied their clips into the lower branches of the oak tree at the back of the property, and slammed in new clips. Savich raised his hand after a moment. They were both on their knees, hidden behind thick wooden trellises, covered with wisteria.
Everything was quiet again.
Savich listened. Above the crackling flames, he heard cops shouting, a couple of guns firing, and sirens wailing in the distance. His breath was pumping out. It burned from breathing in smoke.
Sherlock said, “Captain Paulette’s officers must have gotten around the back.”
“Yes,” Savich said, scanning the trees. “I think Makepeace is gone, cut his losses.”
They slowly rose, still fanning the area, searching for the slightest movement. It was hard to see clearly through the thickening black smoke pouring out of the blazing house, blanketing the backyard.
“I don’t know if we hit him,” Sherlock said.
The heat and smoke pressed them hard now, pushing them back, coughing and wheezing, gasping for air. They heard the shouts of cops coming around the sides of the house, tasted the acrid smoke snaking down their throats, and knew they had to get out of there.
Savich prayed the cops had shot Makepeace.
The roof over Julia’s bedroom crashed down into the kitchen with a muffled roar just as the fire trucks pulled up out front.
CHAPTER 50
Sweat was pouring off their smoke-blackened faces. Savich and Sherlock went down on their knees beside Cheney as he yelled up at Julia. “Stop hovering and patting me, I’m okay, I’m fine.”
“Hold still, macho. He shot you twice because you had to play the damned hero—”
Cheney looked up at her filthy face, her hair straggling out of her ponytail band, and her red bloodshot eyes. He knew there was smoke in her lungs and that worried him. He saw wild fear in her eyes, lightly touched his fingertips to her mouth, and said, “You sure look pretty.”
“What? Have you totally lost your mind?”
Sherlock laughed, couldn’t help herself. “Enough with the compliments. Come on, you guys, we’ve got to get out of here.”
But Julia was holding him, her breathing hitching now. He grabbed her hands. “Listen, Julia, I’m okay. I’m wearing a Kevlar vest. No bullets inside me. Just hurts a bit, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, I’m wearing one of those vests too, so why did you shove me against the wall and climb all over me?”
“I serve and protect, ma’am.”
She was sputtering, she was so frazzled. And trying not to smile.
Savich looked up when Frank Paulette came down on his haunches beside Cheney. “Hey, boy, you’re looking a little green around the gills. Got hit on the Kevlar, did you? You’re going to have some big-time bruises and some sore ribs, but there’s nothing like Kevlar to keep you alive. How about we get our butts out of here right this second?”
Savich pulled Cheney up to his shoulder in a firefighter’s carry and ran around the side of the house, the rest of them protecting Julia as best they could.
They ran across the front lawn and stopped at the curb, still huddled together, covering each other. When Savich eased Cheney off his shoulder and onto the ground, Cheney decided that, Kevlar vest or not, it felt like he’d been kicked in the chest by a pissed-off Pamplona bull. Cheney looked up at Frank, who’d just pocketed his cell. “Tell me your people got him, that’s all I want to hear. I’ll stand up and dance if you tell me that.”
“Not yet, but he can’t get far. We’ve got cops on the ground, fanning out, we’ll get him. Savich said they laid down thick fire. Maybe they got him.”
A beam from a gable at one end of the house exploded and crashed, raining down hot fireworks.
“Captain!”
Frank slewed his head around. “You got him, Booker?”
“He didn’t steal a car, Captain, he stole himself a motorcycle, hid it in some bushes beside one of the neighbors’ driveways, a few doors down. Charlie saw him roaring out, fired at him, and now half a dozen cops are after him. It won’t be long.”
“Did he look wounded to you, Booker?”
“Charlie said the guy was hunched down, had his helmet on, so they couldn’t tell. I don’t know how Makepeace got past Salter and James, Captain, but they never saw a thing until the whole
place blew.”
Cheney said, “Okay, you really can stop patting me, Julia, I’m okay.”
“Hold still for a minute, boy.” Frank unbuttoned Cheney’s shirt, pulled the Velcro straps open on the Kevlar vest. He lightly touched his fingertips where the bullet had flattened in the material high on Cheney’s chest. Then he peeled off the vest, turned Cheney on his side, and looked at his back. “Oscar-winning bruises, Cheney. If you hadn’t been in front of her, Julia here might not be so happy right now.”
They stood watching half a dozen powerful arcs of water pound onto the flaming roof. Cheney saw that Julia’s face was blank as she stared at her burning house. He saw her hands clench into fists at her sides as she watched the flames leap out of her bedroom windows.
He took her hands, smoothed out her fists, kissed her black palms. “Listen to me, you’re all right, and that’s all that matters. We made it.”
Soon all of Julia’s neighbors spilled out of their houses, staring at the fire in horror and fascination, some of them wetting down their own gardens and roofs with hoses, some of them huddled together in small groups. Several came over to Julia, bringing blankets and coffee, but mostly everyone just stood around and watched.
The fire chief, Lucky Mulroney, headed their way ten minutes later. “Good news, Mrs. Ransom. We’ve got the fire under control. It looks like maybe half of your house may be structurally intact, but the inspectors won’t be certain until they’ve gone over it carefully.” He looked back. “A bomb—quite a thing. I hate to see one of our beautiful old houses burn.”
“Yes,” Julia said, not looking away from August’s house. “He was trying to kill me, Chief Mulroney, but he didn’t. This is the third time—” She was interrupted by a TV van screeching to a stop some ten feet away. A man shoved the side panel open and jumped out, a camera on his shoulder, panning until he saw Julia, then he shouted as he zeroed right in. There was probably a microphone as well, she thought. She smiled toward the camera, and waved her black fist in the air. “Did you hear that, you loser? You missed me!”
Then Mulroney threatened to turn one of the hoses on the van if they didn’t back off. Frank had some of his men form a perimeter.
Sherlock said, “I’m wondering how Makepeace knew Julia would come out the back of the house.”
Savich said. “He was playing the odds, though the fact is, he couldn’t be sure.”
Frank said, “Or it could mean there was someone with him— Makepeace was in the back and his partner in the front, but where? I had lots of guys spread out in front.”
Cheney said, “You might never find where Makepeace was hiding with so many people tramping around all over the place.”
“We’ll keep looking. Maybe the guy smoked, left a butt.”
Sherlock said, “We heard footsteps upstairs, Frank, not all that long before it blew. So Makepeace had to be in the house.”
She continued after a moment, “Maybe that’s why he didn’t go for a head shot on you, Cheney, he had to move too fast to get out of there and wanted to be sure he hit you. Then Julia would have been in the open.”
Cheney rubbed his chest. “He got me straight on in the chest and in the center of my back, both fine shots.”
Frank said, “Does anyone have a clue who this partner of his could be, if there was someone? The guy out here to watch the front?”
Savich shrugged. “Could be the person who hired Makepeace to kill Julia, or he could have hired some local talent. The thing is, though, we’ve never heard of Makepeace working with a partner.”
Savich’s cell rang. He listened, then punched off. He looked at them. “That was Dix. Kathryn Golden’s still heavily sedated. They don’t expect her to make much sense for a while yet. They’ve got her at Stanford, a cop on her door.”
A police officer came running up. “We found the motorcycle, Captain, but Makepeace was long gone. That’s the bad, here’s the good.” The officer grinned big. “We got us a witness, an old guy who was walking to the little park right across the street from his house on Brinkley with his seven-year-old great-granddaughter. He said a man plowed his motorcycle real fast right into a mess of thick bushes on the far side of the park, didn’t even try to stop. Then the guy jumped off. In the next minute this small blue car pulled up and he got inside. Car took off. The old guy said he doesn’t know about cars, so had no clue as to its make, didn’t see anything else. Our people are canvassing the neighborhood. Someone else had to see something.”
Savich said, “Officer, wait a moment. Cheney, you and Julia should go back to the Sherlocks’ house. Sherlock and I will go speak to this witness.”
Sherlock heard Julia say, “I’m so relieved Freddy went home on Sunday.”
Savich arched an eyebrow. “Freddy?”
Cheney was laughing. “The neighbor’s cat.”
As they walked away, they heard reporters yelling out questions to them from twenty yards away.
CHAPTER 51
About a half mile from Julia’s house, on Brinkley Street, Savich and Sherlock found the old man standing on his narrow front porch in front of a 1940s cottage, leaning on a cane. He told them first thing that he’d stashed his great-granddaughter safely inside the house. “A wild thing it was,” he said, shaking his head, “happened real fast. My name’s Tuck Wilson.”
Savich introduced himself and Sherlock, pulled out their shields. The old man stuck out his hand. Savich automatically started to shake it, then realized both he and Sherlock were black and filthy. He smiled at the old man. “I don’t want to dirty you up.”
“I appreciate that. So you both were in that fire in the big Ransom place,” Mr. Wilson said and motioned toward the door. “It’s all over the news. You want to come in and clean up?”
Sherlock smiled. “No thank you, Mr. Wilson. We need to ask you some more questions about the man on the motorcycle.”
“Call me Tuck, everybody does except for my little great-granddaughter. She calls me Friar, smart-mouthed little punk.”
Tuck Wilson waved them toward £ wooden swing, but they shook their heads.
“—after the man drove his motorcycle right into the bushes, what exactly did he do?”
“Like I told the other officer, the guy jumped right off—he seemed real familiar with a motorcycle, smooth—okay, he turned and looked up the street. Not more than a minute passed before this blue car drove up, he jumped in the passenger seat, and they took off.”
A whole minute, Savich thought, and smiled. “Please tell us what the motorcycle guy looked like, Mr. Wilson.”
Tuck waved his cane toward the bushes. “He was more tall than not, a black guy, and he moved real fast and he was strong and graceful-like. He had on an old banged-up black leather jacket, I could see the nicks in the leather even with my old eyes. He had on some boots, not cowboy boots, but black boots like a biker would wear. He was wearing a helmet. When he first jumped off the motorcycle, he pulled it off. He was wearing glasses, isn’t that a kick? He saw me, I know he must have, saw Alice too, but he didn’t make any sort of move on us. No, he just concentrated on the street, and watched for the car.”
“Excellent, Tuck,” Savich said. “Okay, think back now. You see the blue car drive up. You see the driver. Tell us about him.”
“Hmmm, now that’s a bit more difficult, it all happened real fast. It was a man, young like the first—” Tuck broke off, laughed. “You gotta understand, anyone who isn’t on the shady side of sixty-five looks young to me. Alice said they were both old, but she’s seven years old.”
“Middle-aged, maybe?”
“He just wasn’t getting on like me.”
“The driver, was he bald? Glasses? What was he wearing?”
“No, he wasn’t bald, I’m sure about that. I couldn’t tell you exactly how much hair he had on his head, only that I could see some. The color? I couldn’t tell, really couldn’t, sorry. I remember thinking it was weird how his fingers kept tapping on the steering wheel while the motorcycle
guy climbed into the car. Then he started yelling.”
“Could you hear what he was yelling about?” Savich asked.
“‘Hurry’ that’s what he yelled, yelled it twice, and then he cussed and stomped on the gas. Now that I think about it, that car really took off fast. So it probably wasn’t an everyday sort of car, probably a fancy one, German, maybe, sounded real sweet and smooth.”
“Friar, you didn’t tell them the guy driving the car was mad, real mad.”
Savich and Sherlock looked down at a little girl who’d slipped out the front door and was peering around at them from behind her great-grandfather’s waist. “You’re Alice, right?”
Alice stared up at Sherlock. “I bet your hair’s real beautiful, ma’am, but not right now. It looks like you need to wash it. Oh, I’m Alice Douggan and this is one of my ancestors, Friar. That’s what he calls himself.”
Sherlock smiled between the two of them. “Is it all right, Tuck, if we speak to Alice?”
“Sure, no problem. Alice, stop hiding behind me. Come out here. You stand straight and tall, get those shoulders back and you tell them what you saw. Don’t add in all sorts of little details from that imagination of yours or else they might arrest you. They’re federal agents.”
Alice walked around Tuck, stood front and center. She cocked her head to one side, studied them straight on. Not at all shy, this cute little fairy “You sure are dirty. My mama would skin me alive if I ever got as dirty as you are. You were in that big fire, right?”
“That’s right,” Savich said, and went down on his knees so he was eye level with the little girl. “I sure like your freckles. I wish my wife had some to go with her red hair, but I guess when she came down the line, the good Lord shook his head at her. When our little boy asked for some, he shook his head at him too.”
“I don’t like them. The kids make fun of me, call me speckle face.”
“Wait until you’re twenty-one and smiling real big. All the guys will line up to talk to you. And I want you to remember what I told you.”
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