The Beginning (47 page)

She was already rolling as she jerked her Lady Colt from her ankle holster and came up onto her elbows.

Marlin Jones was yelling, bringing the knife down, slicing it through the air again and again, yelling and yelling. Then he saw her, lying there, the gun pointed at him.

Captain Dougherty's voice came out of the darkness. “It's the police, Marlin. Throw down the knife and back away from her! Do it now or you're dead.”

“NO!”

“I want to kill you, Marlin,” she whispered, aimed the gun at his belly, “but I won't if you put that knife down.” Her finger was stroking the trigger. She wanted to squeeze it so badly she felt nausea rise in her belly.

Marlin stopped in his tracks. He stared down at her, at that gun she was training on him. “Who are you?”

‘I'll tell you that in court, Marlin, or I'll wire it to you in hell. How many times did you stab all those women, Marlin? Was it always the same number of times? Didn't you ever vary anything? No, you didn't. You stabbed them and then cut out their tongues. How many times, Marlin? The same number as Hillary Ramsgate? Twenty stabs? Keep coming to me now, Marlin, if you want a bullet through your gut. I want to kill you, but I won't, not unless you force me to.”

He was shaking his head back and forth, his jaw working madly as he took one step back, then another. Then, suddenly, in a move so fast it blurred before her, he aimed the knife and released it.

She heard Savich yell even as she jerked to the right. She felt the knife slice through her upper arm. It didn't hit the bone. “Thanks, Marlin,” she said, and fired the Lady Colt. The impact sent him staggering back, his arms clutched around his belly.

Savich yelled, “He's down! Hold your fire! Don't shoot!”

He wasn't in time. Sporadic rounds of fire burst from a dozen weapons, lighting up the warehouse with dim points of light. Savich yelled out again, “He's down! Stop!”

The guns of the dozen police officers surrounding the maze fell silent one by one. They stared at the ripped-up rotted flooring. Incredibly, they hadn't hit Marlin Jones. The closest shot had ricocheted off the side of one of his army boots.

Then the silence was abrupt and heavy.

“Sherlock, damn your eyes, I'm going to throw you from here to Buffalo!”

She was lying on her back, grinning up at him even as he dropped to his knees beside her, ripping the sleeve off his own shirt. The knife was sticking obscenely out of her upper arm. “Hold still now, and don't move a muscle. This just might hurt a bit.” He pulled out the knife.

She didn't yell until she saw it in his hand, her blood covering the blade.

“Don't whine. It barely nicked you. Hold still now.” He bound her arm with his shirtsleeve. “I can't believe you did that. I'm going to kill you once you're okay again. I'm going to tromp you into the mat three dozen times before I even consider letting up on you. Then I'm going to work your deltoids so hard you won't be able to move for a week. Then I'll kill you again for doing this.”

“Is he dead, Dillon?”

Savich turned to look at Ralph, who was applying pressure to Marlin's stomach. “Nope, but it will be close,” Ralph said. “You got him in the belly. The ambulances are real close now. You did good, Sherlock, but I agree with Savich. You nearly got yourself killed. After Savich is done with you, I think I should take you to my boat in the harbor, go a bit out into the ocean, and drown you.”

She smiled up at Savich. “I sure hope he bites the big one. If he doesn't die, he'll prove he's mad, which he is, and if he gets a liberal judge and easy shrinks then he could be pronounced cured and let out to do it all again in another seven years and then he—You pulled that knife out of me. It sort of hurts really bad now. Goodness, look at all that blood.”

Her eyes simply drifted closed, her head lolling to the side.

“Damnation,” Savich said, and pressed harder on the wound.

He heard two men and a woman calling out, “Let us through. Paramedics! Let us through!”

Savich took the Lady Colt from her slack fingers, stared down at the little gun that could so easily kill a human being, shook his head, and pocketed it. He didn't touch the bloody knife.

She woke up in the ambulance, flat on her back, an IV dripping into her arm, two blankets pulled up to her chin. A female paramedic was sitting at her feet. Savich was sitting beside her, his face an inch from hers.

He said the moment her eyes opened, “It's all right, Sherlock. Mrs. Jameson here redid the bandage on your arm, applied a little pressure, and the wound is only bleeding lightly. You're going to have to be checked for any arterial damage, then have some stitches when we get to the hospital, and antibiotics, but you deserve it. I'm going to tell the doctor not to anesthetize you at all and use a big needle. The IV in your arm is water and some salts, nothing for you to worry about. I told you, the knife just nicked you, no big deal.”

Her arm burned so hot she was vaguely surprised that it didn't burst into flame. She managed to smile. “So I'm not to whine?”

“Right.”

Mrs. Jameson said, “You've got great veins. How do you feel, Agent Sherlock?”

“Really good actually,” she said and nearly groaned.

“She's lying. It hurts bad. Listen to me, Sherlock. When Marlin threw the knife at you, if you hadn't already been moving away, it would have gone right through your heart and none of us would have been able to stop it. What you did really makes me mad. I never should have trusted you, never. I was sure you knew what you were doing, but you didn't. You turned those blue eyes of yours on me and that super-sincere FBI voice, and I bought everything you told me. I knew I shouldn't have, but I did, so it's my fault too. You lost it and you didn't even care. You pushed him and pushed him. He could have forgotten all about his act. He could have just killed you without following his script. That was stupid. That really pisses me off, Sherlock.”

“It hurts, doesn't it?” said Mrs. Jameson, drawing Savich off. “But I can't give you any pain medication. We'll have to let the doctor decide on that. Your blood pressure's fine. Now, hang in there. We'll be there in a few minutes.”

At that moment, when she thought her arm would burn off her body, she said, “I'm sorry, Dillon, but I had to.”

“Why did you shoot him in the gut? Why didn't you go for his chest?”

Her eyes were vague, filled with blurred shadows, but she knew there were no more ghosts to weave in and out of her mind, tormenting her. No, everything was all right now. His voice seemed farther away than just an instant before. What had Dillon wanted to know? Oh yes. She licked her lips and whispered, “I wanted him to suffer. Through the heart would have been too easy on him.”

“Finish it, Sherlock.”

“All right, the truth. He hasn't told us everything. If I could have gotten all of it out of him, then I would have shot him clean. Well, maybe. Yes, we have to get him to tell us everything, then I'll shoot him in the chest, I promise.”

She was utterly serious. On the other hand, she was woozy from pain and shock. He said slowly, smiling at her, “Actually, if you hadn't shot him at all, if the bullet hadn't thrown him a good three feet backward in the same instant, he would have had at least thirty rounds pumped into him. So, Sherlock, the bottom line is that you really saved his life.”

“Well, damn,” she said, then smiled back up at him.

“If he pulls through, you can question him and get everything you want out of him. We'll do it together. Don't worry now. Despite the fact that I'm going to throw you across the gym when you're okay again, you still got the monster. Another win for the good guys.” But it had been close, far too close, unnecessarily so. She'd totally disobeyed orders. She'd been a loose cannon. On the other hand, he doubted she'd have ever done that if it hadn't been the psycho who had killed her sister. He'd chew her up some more when she was well again. He hoped it would be soon. She could have died so easily.

She said, “Thank you, Dillon. Give me a while before we go to the gym and you tromp me into the floor. I don't feel so good right now.”

She leaned up and vomited into a basin quickly put under her face by Mrs. Jameson.

 

“YOU'LL
do, Agent Sherlock. Hey, you're not related to Mohammad Sherlock, that famous Middle Eastern sleuth?”

She wanted to shriek at him for the ghastly pain of those six stitches in her upper arm, but she wasn't about to make a peep. He'd given her a pain shot before he'd ever touched her with that needle, but it hadn't helped all that much. Savich was sitting in a chair by the small cubicle door, his legs crossed, his hands folded across his chest, looking at her, daring her to wuss out on him. She said between gritted teeth, “That's one of the best ones I've heard yet, Dr. Ashad.”

He swiftly knotted off the thread. “I pride myself on not being too trite. There, all done. Now, let's pour some stuff on this, sorry, but it'll really sting, then give you three more shots in the butt—tetanus, an antibiotic, and another pain med. Then you'll be out of here. Do go see your doctor down in Washington in a couple of days. The stitches will resorb. You can forget about them. A great detective like you, I don't suppose you want anything for the pain?”

“I still have the strength to give you a good kick, Doctor. If you don't give me a shot, I'll do it.”

“I thought for sure that local would be strong enough for a big FBI agent, particularly one with such a flamboyant name.”

“I'm a new agent. It'll take a while to get to full pain-absorbing capacity, like that guy over there who could have his head kicked in and still sing and crack jokes.”

Savich laughed. “Yeah, go ahead and give her a shot of something to knock her out. Otherwise she's so hyped up she won't shut up until I gag her.”

Dr. Ashad, thin, dark-skinned, yellowish teeth from too much smoking, said as he prepared three needles, “Are you really a new agent, or is that a joke? Come on, you guys have worked together for a long time, haven't you?”

“No, I never saw her before in my life until a month ago. Now I'm going to kill her as soon as she's fit again, so our total acquaintance will have been very short in cosmic terms.”

“You're funny, Agent Savich.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Drop your pants, Agent Sherlock.”

“In the arm, please, Dr. Ashad.”

“No can do. In the butt, Agent.”

“Not until he leaves the room.”

Savich stood right outside the door. He smiled grimly when he heard her yell. Then she yelled again. Two shots. Another yell. There, that was all of them. That should fix her up. She'd nearly died. He should have known that she'd lose it and do what she'd probably planned to do for the last seven years. He looked up to see Ralph Budnack and Captain Dougherty walking toward him.

“How is she?”

“Fine. Back to being mean again.”

“That woman likes to dance right up to the edge,” Captain Dougherty said. “You need to talk to her about that, Savich.” Then he smiled. “Got him,” he said, and rubbed his hands together. He didn't look at all old or worn out tonight. Indeed, there was a bounce to his step. As for Ralph, he couldn't hold still, jumped from one foot to the other, his hands talking faster than his mouth moved.

There was another yelp.

“Four shots,” Savich said. “In the butt. She deserves all the jabs the doctor gives her. I wonder what that last one was for? Maybe part of her punishment.”

A few minutes later, Sherlock came out of the small cubicle tucking in her blouse with one hand since her other arm was in a dark blue sling. “He's a sadist,” she said to Savich before she saw the two cops. “He's not trite, but he is a sadist. I think I might invite him to dinner so I can poison his food.”

“You look pretty fit, Agent Sherlock,” Captain Dougherty told her, and patted her good shoulder with a beefy hand. “We thought maybe you guys wanted to come upstairs to see about Marlin Jones's condition.”

“As of now I'm officially discharged and I wouldn't miss it,” Sherlock said, then looked up at Savich. “What about you, sir? Are you feeling better too? Not quite as violent as you were five minutes ago?”

He wanted to wrap his hands around her skinny neck and squeeze. But it would have to wait. “Allow me the courtesy of processing my violent thoughts without further comment from you, Sherlock. Trust me, it's to your benefit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're not going to collapse or anything, are you, Agent Sherlock?”

“No, Ralph, I promise. I'm fine.” She lasted until they got to the OR waiting room. No one could tell them anything. Jones was still in surgery. They settled in, Savich sitting next to Sherlock. She crashed two minutes later.

“I think she's out,” Savich said. “Tell you what, I'll take her back to the hotel. Call me in the morning with Jones's condition and when the doctors think we'll be able to talk to him. Sherlock will be mad to miss anything, but I doubt the dead could rouse her right now.”

Ralph Budnack reached back and lightly shook her shoulder. She fell more onto Savich.

“Yeah, she's out like a light. Keep an eye on her, Savich. She scared the bejesus out of every cop in that warehouse, but she sure got the job done. Funny thing how her shooting him saved his life. If you hadn't called a quick halt, the cops would have turned him into a pincushion. Hey, we'll call tomorrow. Oh yeah, we got a lot on film.”

Savich carried her into the hotel, over one wimpy protest. At least it was late and only one old guy thought Savich was a pervert, from the way he was licking his chops. Because Savich was worried about leaving her alone, he took her to his room, pulled off her shoes, and tucked her into his bed. He turned the light on low over by the desk by the windows. He called his boss, Jimmy Maitland, to tell him they'd caught the String Killer. He wasn't about to tell his boss yet that Agent Sherlock had nearly gotten herself killed because she'd lost all sense and turned into a cowboy, something the Bureau ferociously discouraged.

 

SHERLOCK
slept through the night. She came abruptly awake early the next morning. Her eyes flew open, she realized her arm felt on fire, and yelped.

“Good morning. You're alive, I see.”

She frowned up at him, trying to piece things together. “Oh, I'm in your room.”

“No one should croak alone,” he said. “I got your clothes from your room. If you feel up to it, go bathe and change. When you come out, breakfast should be here. Lots of protein, lots of iron, lots of orange juice.”

“What's the orange juice for?”

“To keep you from coming down with a cold.”

He watched her swing her legs over the side of the bed. That hair of hers had come loose from the clasp and was rioting around her face. She looked totally different. He backed up a step. “I even put out some female stuff on the counter for you. If you need to shave your legs, forget it. I've only got one razor.”

He was distracting her from the pain in her arm.

“Oh yeah, Sherlock, before you go haring off to catch another killer, hold on a second.” He disappeared into the bathroom, then came out a few moments later. “Here, take two pills. Doctor's orders.”

She knew the little blue one would take the wretched cutting pain away. Then maybe she could attack that breakfast Savich was talking about.

“You're eyeing those pills the way the cannibal would the sailor in the cooking pot.” He handed her the pills and a glass of water. She was fast getting them down.

“Why don't you just sit there until the meds kick in. I'll call room service.”

Forty-five minutes later, wrapped in a robe, bathed as well as she could with just one hand, Lacey was seated opposite Savich, a fork piled with scrambled eggs very nearly to her mouth. She sighed as she swallowed.

He let her eat for three minutes, then said, “I didn't tell Mr. Maitland that you're an idiot, that in your first situation you didn't follow orders, you taunted the suspect until he threw the knife at you, that you nearly got yourself whacked because of this obsession you have.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Cut the ‘sir' stuff. He'll find out soon enough. I still might kick your butt out of the Bureau. That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen, Sherlock.” He'd said it all the previous night, but she might have been too dazed to get it all. He needed to pound it in.

“I wanted to push him to the edge. I wanted him to tell me everything—the why of everything. I don't know if I believe that maze story he told me about his father.”

“It's a fact easily checked. I'll bet you Ralph has already got in calls to Yuma, Arizona. Tell me, Sherlock, is the obsession gone now that you took out the monster? Was your revenge sweet?”

“Is he still alive?”

“Yes. They operated on him three straight hours. Chances are he'll make it.”

“There's still a chance he'll croak after we get it all out of him. Do you think that's possible?”

“I don't plan to let you near him with a weapon.”