“No wonder,” her five-year-old said. “Cal and Gage are babies. They need all the watching they can get. I’ll help her.”
Sherlock said to Delion, “When we flew out here for Memorial Day weekend six months ago, Sean spent three hours with Emma and the boys, and announced to us he was going to marry Emma and help her teach Cal and Gage about life. I asked him about Marty Perry, his girlfriend next door, and the love of his life. I also asked him about Bowie Richards’s daughter, Georgie, also the love of his life, up in Connecticut. Sean just smiled, didn’t you, kiddo?”
Delion said to Sean, “I agree with you, Sean, Emma’s a champ. As for Marty and Georgie, they sound pretty cool, too. Hey, kid, the older you get the more you look like your old man.”
Sean considered that. “Mama says I’m more handsome than Papa, since I have her smile. She says that makes all the difference.”
Delion laughed.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Savich said, and Sherlock saw Sean repeating his father’s words to himself. She rolled her eyes. She leaned over and ruffled Sean’s thick black hair.
Sean said, sounding a bit worried, “I hope Emma didn’t forget she’s engaged to me.”
“Not a chance,” Savich said. “Do you think your mama could have ever forgotten she was engaged to me?”
“Not a chance,” Sean said.
When they passed by Candlestick Park, Sean said, “That’s where Dwight Clark made The Catch way back in the old days, right, Papa?”
Savich grinned. “It sure is.”
Sherlock said to Delion, “Can you believe he remembers that?”
Delion said, “Yeah, well, his hard drive works better because it isn’t as full as ours.”
All the adults realized any more discussion about Ramsey’s shooting had to wait. Delion was talking about the upcoming 49ers-Seahawks game when Sean said, “Marty asked me when I was going to have a sister because she’s going to have a new brother in March.”
Now, that was a conversation starter.
San Francisco General Hospital
Surgical ICU
Friday afternoon
Savich didn’t want to count all the lines that tethered Ramsey Hunt to life. There were IV lines in his neck, and an oxygen mask on his face. Savich recognized a kind of suction device connected to the end of the tube coming from Ramsey’s chest, a Pleurovac, they called it. Ramsey lay on his back, still and pale, his immense life force badly faded. At least it wasn’t extinguished. A light sheet was pulled to his chest, not quite covering his wide white surgical bandages. He was breathing lightly and steadily, a relief, but his eyelids looked bruised, perhaps from when he’d fallen. Savich hated it.
The SFPD guard outside the cubicle had given them the stink eye before Lieutenant Trolley introduced them to Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD. Since only two visitors could go into the small cubicle at a time, Savich went in first to stand beside Molly. She didn’t look away from Ramsey, merely took Savich’s hand in hers and squeezed hard. “Thank you for coming so quickly. The Valium Cheney suggested the doctor give me—it’s magic stuff. It’s helped unparalyze my brain. I’m sorry I lost it when I called you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Savich said. “Ramsey’s breathing is solid and easy, Molly; that’s a good sign.”
Ramsey had told him once that Molly’s hair was as vibrant a red as a sunset off the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, and Ramsey was right. You’d think Ramsey was describing Sherlock’s hair, but it wasn’t the same color at all.
She turned into him, and he closed his arms around her. She felt fragile. It was odd, he thought, but Molly’s hair didn’t feel the same as Sherlock’s hair, and didn’t smell like her hair, either—it was jasmine he was smelling, jasmine mixed with lemon, not the faint rose scent of Sherlock’s. “He’ll make it, Molly,” he said against her hair. “He’ll make it. He’s strong and determined, and he wants to stay here with us.”
She pulled back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I think he will, too. But I’m so scared, Dillon. What if—”
“No what-ifs. Has he been awake at all?”
“In and out, mumbling words I can’t understand for the most part, then saying Emma’s name over and over. I think he’s remembering back to the time he found her unconscious in the forest near his cabin.”
“Has Cheney come in yet?”
“Yes, we spoke briefly. I told him what I could, which wasn’t much of anything at all, and he said he’d see me later today after Ramsey was awake and the doctors were satisfied he was going to be okay. I think he wanted to give me more time to consider who and why, but I can’t think of a single person who would want to kill him. Cheney told me about the Cahills and how Ramsey had postponed the trial and how that federal prosecutor was missing. Ramsey hadn’t said a word to me, but in all honesty, there wasn’t time.” She walked away from him, then turned, her hands fisted at her sides. “No, there was time, but damn him, he’s always trying to protect me. He knew something hinky was going on, and he kept it to himself. I will have to seriously consider hurting him for that.”
She picked up Ramsey’s limp hand. “He’s so strong,” she said, more to herself than to him, “so tough, always a rock, you know?” A beautiful man, she’d always thought, with his dark hair and brilliant dark eyes, and his laugh, his seductive laugh. “Can you believe we’ve been married for five years? Goodness, Emma’s eleven and the boys are three. The boys are scared, Dillon, they don’t understand.” Her voice hitched, then smoothed out again. “Emma’s taking care of them. She’s more their second mother than their older sister. The babysitter, Mrs. Hicks, is with them, too.” She raised wet eyes to Savich’s face. “They won’t let the boys come see him, Dillon, and that only makes them more scared.”
Ramsey moaned deep in his throat.
She leaned over him, lightly kissed his cheek. “Ramsey? You have a visitor. Come, wake up now.”
His eyes opened slowly, blind and empty of knowledge, but they cleared slowly and focused. Savich leaned close. “I’d rather we were fishing in Lake Tahoe and I was catching that four-pound trout and you weren’t.”
An attempt at a smile, but he didn’t quite make it. “I don’t remember it just like that.”
“Okay, I’ll give you the trout since you were the one who fried the sucker. It’s nice to have you here with us, either way.”
Ramsey whispered, “Molly?”
“I’m here,” she said, squeezing his hand.
Ramsey looked back at Dillon, and now his voice was stronger, some of the familiar steel sounding through. “I remember now, someone shot me.”
Molly said, “You were turning when I called out to you and someone shot you in the back.”
“I went down like a rock, lights out,” he said. He looked thoughtful. “I was shot once before in the leg—and, you know, wherever you’re shot, it doesn’t feel too good.” He closed his eyes against a vicious lick of pain. “My chest feels like it’s been flattened by an eighteen-wheeler.”
Savich put the morphine plunger in his hand. “Squeeze this, it’s your PLA, and it’ll cut the pain.”
Ramsey had never seen one before. He closed his eyes in gratitude and pressed the button. They both waited silently until he said, “That’s better already. I can control this if I don’t move too much.”
Savich said, “I’m glad you turned when you did. Do you know what direction the shot came from?”
Ramsey looked blank. “The direction? I suppose it had to be from the ocean. Someone in a boat? It’s hard to imagine someone firing at me from a boat, what with all the motion from the waves. That would take a professional, and still I can’t imagine it’d be a sure thing.”
Savich said, “Did you see a boat?”
Ramsey looked perfectly blank, not totally with them, and then pain hit him again, and he went stone silent.
Savich said, “You feel a little muddled, Ramsey, don’t worry about it. The important thing is you’re alive, and you’re
going to get better every day.”
“The Cahills?”
“It’s possible. We’re checking.”
“I don’t know why, Savich. Do you?”
“We don’t know yet, either.”
“Have they found the prosecutor, Mickey O’Rourke?”
“Not yet.”
Molly lightly shoved Savich away when Ramsey’s eyes closed. She whispered next to his cheek, “I want you to think about healing yourself, Ramsey. Think about tossing me and Emma around on the mat—you need to get better to do that. And you need a shave.”
He managed a rictus of a grin.
ICU nurse Janine Holder said from the doorway, “I like the dark whiskers. They make him look tough and dangerous. Dr. Kardak is here to see you, Judge Hunt.”
Savich introduced himself, stepped back to let Dr. Kardak examine Ramsey. He was an older man, tall and thin as a whip handle, and he looked tired, like he’d gone ten rounds with death and just barely won.
When Dr. Kardak noticed Ramsey’s eyes on him, he said, “Ah, Judge Hunt, you’re awake and with us, excellent. My trauma team and I operated on you last night, and I’ve come to check how you’re doing.” Without waiting for an answer, he started to examine the IV lines and the fluid in contraptions Ramsey was tied to. All the while, he kept up a running monologue about what they had found at surgery, the broken ribs, the torn lung, the blood in the chest cavity, as if it were all business as usual and nothing to be worried about. When he at last listened to Ramsey’s chest and examined his dressings, he said, “You sound good, Judge Hunt. I’m hopeful your lung will stay fully expanded and that we can pull out the chest tube this weekend. You need it for now, but I know it can hurt like the dickens.”
When Dr. Kardak straightened, Savich asked him, “How close a thing was it, doctor?”
Dr. Kardak said, “Tough to say, but he got to us—a level-one trauma center—in what we call the golden hour.” He touched long, thin fingers to Ramsey’s pulse. “Your major risk was blood loss, Judge Hunt, and that’s behind you. You’re going to live. That’s not to say you’re going to be happy for a while, but it beats the alternative.”
“Amen,” Ramsey said. “Thank you.”
“Make full use of the morphine. We can give you something else if it doesn’t hold you.”
Ramsey pressed the button again. “Now that I know about this magic button, I’m thinking I’ll empty it pretty fast.”
Dr. Kardak said, “Not a problem. Three of us worked on you in the OR, Judge Hunt. Dr. Janes kept reminding us you were Judge Dredd and we’d be tarred and feathered and ridden out of town if you went down on our watch.” He gave Ramsey a fat smile, then turned to Molly and took her hands in his. “Your husband is strong and healthy, and, trust me, the team here is excellent. Try not to worry. Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. I heard your daughter play Bach’s Italian Concerto at the children’s concert with the symphony two years ago. My wife still remembers how well she played it. In fact, I remember she wept when Emma played the second movement. I read she’ll be playing Gershwin with the symphony in early December. Congratulations. She is incredible. Now, Agent Savich, Judge Hunt should rest.”
Ramsey said, his voice low, a bit slurred, “Special Agent Dillon Savich is a longtime friend of ours. He knows all about gunshot wounds, and he’s here to help.”
“Is that so?” Dr. Kardak shook Savich’s hand again, even though he’d already met him. He said, “I met your wife in the hall. Hard to believe two FBI agents married, as in to each other. How does that work?”
“I’m her boss. It’s up to me to make it work.”
“And how do you do that? Men everywhere would like to know.”
“I tell her to suck it up when she disagrees with me.”
This brought a laugh and a “Good luck with that” from Dr. Kardak. He said, “I’ll be in the hospital all day if you have any questions or concerns.”
Molly grabbed his sleeve. “Why is that? You said Ramsey would be all right.”
“Yes, I did. I mentioned my being here, close by, only to help you feel confident and supported. It will be just me you need to ask for, no residents or medical students. Judge Hunt, if you want to sleep, simply close your eyes and everyone will go away.”
Dr. Kardak was a very nice man, Savich thought. “Molly, do you think you and Sherlock could trade off for a while?”
Molly didn’t want to leave, it was plain to see, but she did after kissing Ramsey and promising to bring him a pint of his favorite pistachio ice cream.
San Francisco General Hospital
Friday afternoon
U.S. Federal Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri leaned against the hallway wall, outside the SICU, her knee bent and her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for her turn to see Judge Hunt. His surgeon, Dr. Kardak, had told everyone Judge Hunt was doing fine, but she still wasn’t over the soul-wrenching fear she’d felt when she’d been called at four a.m. to be told Judge Hunt had been shot. Would he live? Her boss, Carney Maynard, didn’t know, but Hunt had survived surgery and he had a chance, he told her matter-of-factly, because Judge Hunt was made of pure titanium. Thank all the powers that be, and thank Dr. Kardak’s team.
Maynard had told her the SFPD would be part of the protection detail along with the U.S. Marshals Service while Judge Hunt was in the hospital, but she was to stay close, as any questions about coverage or assignments would be directed to her. When Judge Hunt was discharged, she would be officially responsible for his and his family’s protection. She looked through the windowed door of the SICU at Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD, seated by Judge Hunt’s cubicle, and watched him study every face that came near. He looked angry, like most other cops she’d met since Judge Hunt had been shot. She wondered if every single law enforcement agency in the city would try to be involved in hunting down the man—or woman—who’d tried to kill him. Judge Hunt was a big deal, an American hero. She closed her eyes for a moment, thankful Ramsey would live and thankful for how well she had gotten to know him and his family over the years. When he was shot, she’d promised a real biggie if he would live—to be pleasant to her ex-mother-in-law if ever she saw her again, something she hoped would never happen. Eve and her ex-mother-in-law’s son, Ryan, had been married for about half an hour before Eve booted him out. She could still hear the woman’s outraged voice: A good woman would forgive her husband his small transgressions.
As she waited, she asked herself again for at least the twelfth time—had the Cahills hired the shooter? If so, it meant their defense attorney, Milo Siles, had to be in on it. How else could the Cahills have gotten hold of the talent and money so fast? She’d met the prosecutor, Mickey O’Rourke, several times, on the volleyball court. She remembered his laugh when his team had won—a really big laugh. He didn’t laugh in the courtroom, though, he was all business, a veteran who wielded a bullwhip. He had a good conviction rate. But none of that mattered now. He was missing, simply gone, no word, no emails, no nothing. She sighed, wishing just this once she was FBI and had the assignment to lead this case.
She pushed off the wall and began to pace, aware that Mancusso was watching her through the window. She wanted to see Ramsey, see for herself he was breathing, that his excellent brain was working behind his smart dark eyes, but it was one cop after the other trooping in. Lieutenant Virginia Trolley, SFPD, was in and out because she was also a trusted family friend. Eve knew it made Molly feel better to have Virginia close, another trained body to protect Ramsey. And those two FBI agents from Washington had been in, Savich and Sherlock were their names, a husband and wife, and wasn’t that a kick?
Eve looked up to see two men approaching—yeah, they were definitely Feds; you couldn’t mistake their private club dress code—dark suits, white shirts, usually dark ties. They were striding toward her, self-assured and arrogant as toreadors entering the ring. She recognized both, of course; she’d been introduced to the new SAC, Cheney Stone, but not the other agent. She’d seen the other one d
riving out of the parking garage a couple of times, but that was it.
She moved to stand against the wall again, waiting, all indolent and loose-limbed. Let them come to her. She whistled between her teeth. She wondered who’d cornered the market on the federal wingtips.
She heard the agent walking beside Cheney Stone say, “That picture we found in the bushes, the newspaper clipping of Judge Dredd with an X through his face—it’s like he’s sticking it in our faces and laughing.”
Hmmm, there was a clipping of Ramsey left at the crime scene? It was the first she’d heard of it. Not that she expected to know much about what the FBI had found, since she’d never even been inside the locked door on the thirteenth floor in the Federal Building. No, that space was inhabited only by the San Francisco FBI tribe. The U.S. Marshals Service occupied the twentieth floor, their digs only one floor above the senior federal judges’ offices and courtrooms. She didn’t care much for that FBI attitude, one of the reasons she hadn’t considered signing on with them six years before. She’d heard too many stories about some of the special agents—and wasn’t that a self-important title? For the most part, the FBI got results, but too often, it was their way or why don’t you take a leap from the Golden Gate Bridge? Were they prepared to deal with her, or would they try to plant their big Fed feet on some part of her anatomy? She’d see. She’d go around them, or through them, if necessary.
Cheney Stone stopped. “And here’s Deputy Marshal Eve Barbieri.”
He remembered her name, and that was a surprise. Eve shook hands with Stone. “Congratulations on becoming special agent in charge, Agent Stone.”
Cheney gave her a grin. “Thanks. It’s already been two months and I’m still alive and breathing, for the most part. But my once predictable life now consists of herding pit bulls.”
Eve could only agree, her opinion clear on her face even though she kept her mouth shut.
“Since we’ll be working together on Judge Hunt’s shooting, call me Cheney.”
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