Split Second

by Catherine Coulter

  “I live only a block away, in that big high-rise off Calvert. Cheap jerks, they haven’t replaced the doorman yet, and he left four months ago. You got security?”

  She saw Kirsten was eyeing her drugged beer, saw Bruce Comafield was watching her, and forced herself to drink some more. “No, I haven’t got any security, either. What do you do for a living, Stephani?” Her words slurred a bit, and Sherlock was surprised at how fast the drug was acting, and she’d only drunk a little.

  “I was selling art over in the Calliope Gallery. Do you know the place? Most of the paintings are dark, with old barns and graveyards and fluttering ghosts, you know, an Edgar Allan Poe theme, but that didn’t work out.”

  “How come?”

  Kirsten laughed. “I kept shooting all the freaking ravens off the tombstones. No, I’m kidding. I didn’t like my boss. Now I’m currently assessing my employment situation, since my money’s running pretty low. What do you think? Could I be an artist’s model?” And even in the tight space, Kirsten managed to strike a professional pose.

  “If I were an artist, I’d hire you in a minute.”

  Sherlock knew her words were frankly slurred now. She knew it was time to get moving, time to rock and roll out of the bar to Dillon waiting outside, before she fell over and puked all over her beautiful black heels.

  She slid off the bar stool, staggered a bit, and grabbed the edge of the bar, none of it an act. She hated it, wished she’d managed to figure out how to dump the beer and fake the rest. She felt nausea pumping in her belly, felt her brain clouding over. “What’s this? Three of these wonking Texas Espressos and I’m about ready to fall over?”

  “They’re pretty strong. How about I help you home, Suzzie Q? No, it’s okay, you’re on my way. Hey, what about your skunk-brained ex-boyfriend? Do you think he’ll be waiting for you?”

  “That fat-fried jerk? He’ll only show up to leave my car. He knows he’d better, or I’ll call the cops on him.”

  Sherlock tried to take a step, slammed into a knot of people. Kirsten grabbed her arm, righted her. “Good for you, sweetcakes. Come on, now, Suzzie, let me walk you home. Wow, this crowd is as thick as that BP oil slick.”

  Sherlock gave her a sloppy grin she didn’t fake. “Yeah, you’re okay, Stephani with an i.” She took a step and nearly fell over a big-haired woman at a table, but Stephani caught her arm again and pulled her back.

  “You sure aren’t much of a beer drinker. I’m glad you don’t want to ride that mechanical bull. Look at all those yahoos hooting and hollering and getting tossed on their butts.”

  “No bull. I want to ride in my blue Corvette. I sure hope that dip-brain brought her back safe and sound.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sherlock saw Ruth, Dane right behind her. Good, they were following them. She heard a guy yell “Yahoo!” Then hoots of laughter and boos when he went flying off Ivan. The people at the bar looked like they were slowly moving toward the shows on Ivan. Sherlock saw Bruce Comafield toss a bill on the bar counter, force his way through the crowd toward the bathroom and the back door. Sherlock hoped Ollie and Jack were on him. She saw Mrs. Spicer standing frozen in the middle of the bar, a full tray in her hands, customers flowing around her, staring after Sherlock and Kirsten, her face wild with excitement. Thank God, Kirsten hadn’t noticed Santa.

  And then Mrs. Spicer yelled over all the noise, “You have a nice evening, all right?”

  Not good.

  Kirsten froze, her hand tightened on Sherlock’s arm.

  Sherlock waggled her fingers in Mrs. Spicer’s direction and said to Kirsten, “Next time maybe I’ll give that mechanized bull a try.” She beamed drunkenly up at Kirsten. She could feel Mrs. Spicer’s eyes fastened on them, prayed Kirsten was too focused on killing her to pay any more attention to Mrs. Spicer.

  Sherlock staggered out of the bar in lockstep with Kirsten. Four guys, all of them drunk and laughing and insulting one another, spilled out behind them. They were older, and one of them started singing “Good Night, Irene.”

  Sherlock knew she was going to throw up, and she had to act first. Had Kirsten’s other victims felt this sick this fast? She had to hold on, had to. She couldn’t believe it when a big black Pathfinder screeched up to the curb right in front of them and at least a half dozen guys and girls in their early twenties belched out of the behemoth and surrounded them on the sidewalk. Oh, no. Dillon, you can’t get to Kirsten, not with all these drunken happy people in the way.

  So it would be just her and Kirsten. Sherlock was leaning heavily on Kirsten’s arm, her steps uneven and jerky. She wondered if she’d be able to take Kirsten down with the cramps coming in vicious waves that made her want to double over. She tasted bile in her throat, and swallowed, once, twice. Soon, she thought, she’d be throwing up her toenails, completely helpless. She knew what to expect, and she hated it.

  Hold on; get yourself ready.

  “We’re getting there, sweetie. Don’t worry, I’m with you, and I’ll stay with you. Ignore all the drunk hee-haws. Maybe tomorrow you can take me for a nice long drive in that sexy Corvette of yours. Hey, sister, watch where you’re going!”

  Sherlock was nearly in Kirsten’s arms, people forcing them closer. She managed to say, “Yeah, that’s a plan. What’s going on here? I can’t believe it, three beers and I want to throw up on my expensive heels.”

  CHAPTER 42

  The bar doors flew outward again, and more laughing, hooting drunk people spilled out. She didn’t see Dillon or Lucy or Coop, but she couldn’t really see much at all. She was surrounded by merry, mentally debilitated people who had no idea a monster was in their midst.

  Sherlock felt her mind floating away, only to have it whip back when the cramps and the nausea struck harder. Through a haze, she saw Mr. Spicer come roaring out of the bar. What was he waving? Good Lord, it was a bat, and he was yelling something. She saw a blur of movement—Mr. Spicer was swinging the bat, mowing through the crowd like a berserker.

  I’ve got to act; there’s no more time. Where are you, Dillon? There was a space, and as she fought off a wave of nausea, Sherlock jerked away from Kirsten’s grasp, whirled back, and struck her hard in the jaw. But there was no leverage behind it, because the world was spinning madly, and she was too close.

  She saw Kirsten fall back, slam into a couple of people, who yelled in surprise as they leaped out of the way. She watched her trip and go down with a yell into a guy’s legs.

  She heard one of the older guys who’d been belting out Irene’s name yell, “Hey, Redhead, what are you doing? Why’d you knock her down? You nuts?”

  Sherlock fell to her knees beside her, managed to pull out her SIG and press the barrel to her mouth. “Hold it right there, Kirsten, party’s over. You’re under arrest.” She knew her words were slurred, and though she wanted to tell her what she was under arrest for—how many women?—she barely managed to call over her shoulder, “Dillon, I’m here. I’ve got her down!”

  Had anyone even heard her over the singing, the shouts, the laughter? If they had, had any of them even understood her words?

  Kirsten came up on her elbows, stared up at Sherlock. “What? You’re not—”

  She knew she was going to heave, and yelled, “Dillon!”

  She was weaving over Kirsten, unable to control herself, her SIG a dead weight in her hand, all the people pressing closer. There were shouted questions, angry voices—she heard someone yell, “She’s got a gun!” No more drunken laughter now.

  Everything was happening so fast, all in an instant of time, and Kirsten was squirming wildly. Sherlock tried to hit her again, but it wasn’t going to happen. She had to do something before she passed out, but her coordination was shot, the world and all its noise was fading in and out on her now. She managed to grab Kirsten’s head between her hands and slam it against the sidewalk. Kirsten’s eyes went blank; she was out. Thank you, God.

  She heard Mrs. Spicer yell something about Billy—who was Billy?—to get bac
k inside, and for Billy to stop. There was more, but Sherlock simply couldn’t understand now; her mind wasn’t working right, and she felt so sick and miserable, she simply wanted to roll under a car and die. Who was Billy?

  Sherlock threw herself over Kirsten, her brain spinning, the din of people yelling, many screaming now, running to avoid Mr. Spicer’s swinging bat. Billy, she knew it was Billy, she recognized his voice—he was yelling about Gator putting down the freaking bat.

  Sherlock heard Dillon’s beautiful voice over all the chaos. “All of you, quiet! We’ve got this under control. Go back inside, now! Take Mr. Spicer with you.”

  How much time had passed? Maybe an hour, maybe a minute, two seconds? She didn’t know. Sherlock saw Billy shoving people aside like bowling pins until he came up to her and grabbed her shoulder. She very nearly threw up on him. His voice sounded like a foghorn, fading in and out. “What is this, you robbing her? You knocked her out cold?” He saw the gun and grabbed her arm. Sherlock, nearly gone now, made out the gun in his big hand—at least she thought it was a gun—and he pressed it against her head. “Listen up, sister, I’m a cop. I want you to step away from Ms. Spiked-up Hair. Drop that big-assed SIG, and get down on your stomach.”

  She was surprised her SIG was still in her hand. “Wait, wait—” Sherlock tried to reach under her tunic to her jeans pocket to pull out her creds, but it wasn’t happening. Her jeans pocket seemed to be in a different universe, her hand floating all around it. She looked up at him, couldn’t make out his face but felt anger pulsing off him—and that was clear as day. She heard Dillon’s voice but couldn’t make out what he was saying. She knew she had to make this angry man understand, but her voice came out a blurred whisper, “FBI, I—I had to knock her out or she’d—kill me.”

  He was right next to her, and his hand clutched her hair, pulling her face back, “You, FBI? I’m a cop, and I say you’re a drunk moron with a gun. Now, let go of it, you hear me, or I’ll make you real sorry. As for you, buddy, you get your ass out of here or I’ll knock your head off.” Who was the buddy he was talking to?

  Then Sherlock saw Dillon’s legs. Thank God, he’d finally gotten through. She wanted to call out to him, but he was weaving now, his legs blurring with a dozen other legs as she gulped down the sickness. Billy was screaming, it hurt her ears it was so loud, and he was yanking on her hair, and she heard Kirsten groan. Billy let go of her hair and hit her shoulder hard. She thought she heard Dillon growl, like an animal ready to attack its prey, and that prey would be Billy.

  “Dillon.” Had she said his name aloud? She wasn’t sure. Kirsten was grabbing her and shoving her off. No, she couldn’t let her go, she couldn’t. She heard Billy cursing, yelling, heard Dillon, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. There was only noise.

  Was that Mrs. Spicer yelling that the redhead was FBI and Billy was an idiot?

  She was closing down fast. She heard Kirsten yell out Bruce Comafield’s name. Was he here? She heard running, and then gunshots, lots of them, and they sounded like cannons firing in her face. She heard Comafield yell, “Run, Kirsten! Run!”

  Sherlock tried to grab her, she really did, but it was a pathetic effort. Kirsten kicked her in the ribs, and when Sherlock grabbed her leg, Kirsten turned and slammed her other foot into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock fell back onto the sidewalk. She saw bursts of white flare madly, then the dim streetlight was suddenly bright and looming, weaving around her, and all the people were shadows now, blurring into one another.

  She heard running, screaming, more gunfire. Who was firing? Everyone, she thought. Everyone, and Comafield. Kirsten? Did she have a gun, too?

  She tried to yell for Dillon to stop Kirsten, but nothing came out of her mouth. She rolled over, managed to come up onto her knees, and began to vomit.

  Through the awful heaving, she heard Mrs. Spicer yelling at her husband.

  There was gunfire still. She knew it was Comafield; he was firing to provide cover for Kirsten, that was it. Was he shooting at Dillon? Of course he was; he was shooting at everyone.

  CHAPTER 43

  Legs, all Sherlock could see were legs, a dozen or a hundred. She heard two people close to her yell and saw them fall. She heard Ollie shouting for people to get into the bar, and she saw his legs now, and he was shoving people, trying to get them to move.

  She heard Lucy shouting at Comafield after a lull in the shooting. Was he out of bullets? She heard him curse, heard metal garbage cans clanking.

  Another gunshot, a sharp, loud staccato. Was it Lucy, had she hit Comafield?

  She was shutting down. Was she dying? She heard Coop shout, heard Lucy say something, then she heard more gunfire.

  She smelled Dillon, and she smiled as she felt him kneel next to her, pulling her up against him, his hands on the pulse at her throat. “It’ll be all right; it’s over now, sweetheart; hang in there. The ambulance is on the way.” He said it over and over, and she tried to smile up at him, tried to tell him she loved him, but the world was swimming away from her. “Dillon,” she whispered, and then she was out.

  Savich felt her pulse again. He lifted her away from the mess, and rose. He saw Lucy bent over Billy, pressing her hands down hard against the bullet wound in his shoulder. Ollie and Dane were seeing to the wounded civilians, and Ruth and Jack were still herding people back into the bar, trying to get everyone to calm down.

  He couldn’t believe it. What a debacle.

  Bruce Comafield had two bullets in him. He saw Coop go down on his knees and apply pressure to his belly wound.

  And Kirsten? Savich knew in his gut Kirsten was long gone.

  He lightly shook Sherlock, but she didn’t stir. He was so afraid he was ready to run to the nearest hospital himself. He saw people were beginning to come out of the bar again to see what was going on, but he didn’t care enough to tell them to back off.

  He heard Mrs. Spicer say with satisfaction, “You got the little pisser. And now look, he’s shot. What happened to the girl, to Bundy’s daughter?”

  Savich began to rock Sherlock. Where were the ambulances? He called out, “Mrs. Spicer, would you join Mr. Spicer and give everyone a free beer? That’d be nice, don’t you think?”

  Gator seemed to think about that. “Well, maybe you’re right. I mean, Billy’s my friend for a hundred years now, and he deserves one. Are you okay, buddy?”

  Billy the Cop called out, “Yeah, Gator, give me a beer. That’d be good.” And then he moaned real loud.

  “Don’t you dare die on me, Billy, you got that? Hey, I’ll get you two beers. As for those stampeding yahoos, I’d like to take my bat to them.” Still grumbling, Mr. Spicer walked back into his bar, his bat tucked under his arm.

  Savich heard Billy the Cop say to Lucy, “Do you know, Agent, you have no idea how pissed off my guys in the BPD are going to be at you and your buddies. It might be best if you left right now, before they get here.”

  Ollie came down over Savich. “How is she?”

  “Unconscious. At least she wasn’t shot, but I’m worried she’s overdosed. Where are the ambulances?”

  Ollie dropped down on his haunches. “They’ll get here soon. There’s no sign of Kirsten. What do you want me to do, Savich?”

  “Help Coop with Comafield. He’s our only lead to Kirsten. I don’t want him dying on us.”

  Coop looked over at Lucy when she said to Billy, “You’re doing great, Billy. I gotta say, though, you’ve really got sucky luck. I mean, here you are out for a night of fun, and a maniac guns you down. Sorry about that.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Anyone dead?”

  “No, thank heavens, just a couple of walking wounded.”

  “So why were all you FBI here?”

  “I’ll tell you something, Billy. The woman who got away?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s Ted Bundy’s daughter.”

  Billy cursed a blue streak, surprise mixing with pain. “We all knew she was out there, but not here, not in Baltim
ore. That was really her? Right here, at my neighborhood bar? I can’t believe I missed that.”

  People being people, they began to slip out of the bar again once everything quieted down. They blocked the street, milling around when the ambulance sirens sounded in the distance, the cop sirens blending in. People who drove by slowed down to see what was going on, and others were hanging out of neighboring windows, asking what was happening. Even when the ambulances pulled close, few of them seemed to want to get out of the way.

  It was a zoo until Ollie cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Every one of you step back inside or I’m making arrests!”

  Finally most people moved aside so the EMTs could get through.

  Savich heard Coop call out, “Here first!” and saw Coop was pressing both palms hard on Comafield’s belly.

  Savich shouted, “How bad, Coop?”

  “It’s going to be close, Savich. He’s shot in the abdomen, and there was blood and intestinal juice coming out. I can’t control the bleeding; it’s going to take an operation to do that. The other bullet went in and out of his arm, no big deal. Still, he’s going to be luckier than most of God’s creatures if he makes it. What about Sherlock?”

  “She’s in and out,” Savich said, wiping her mouth.

  And then she whispered, “Did she get away?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry about it now. How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

  “We screwed up.” She pulled out of his arms, doubled over again with cramps and dry heaves.

  That was true enough, Savich thought, gathering Sherlock against him once her cramps had lessened. They’d held their fire because of the crowd, but it didn’t matter, they all looked like incompetents.

  Jack Crowne pushed through the crowd around them, saying, “FBI, let me through.” He came down on his haunches. “How are you, Sherlock?”

  She said, “I sure wish we could replay that whole deal.”