The Beginning (61 page)

“Evidently she'd blocked it out, for some reason neither of us can figure out. She remembered under hypnosis. Do you know why she'd block it out, sir?”

“No, no reason to as far as I can see. It was seven years ago. It no longer matters,” Judge Sherlock said and sucked on his pipe. The library was filled with the delicious, rich smell. Savich took another drink of his tea.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Do you know if Douglas was the father?”

“Look, Lacey, Mr. Savich, Belinda shouldn't have been pregnant in the first place. I told you, Lacey, that Douglas knew they shouldn't ever have children because of her defective genes. Look at her mother. Her father is even worse. Yes, I keep tabs on him. He'll be out one of these days, despite my efforts to the contrary. I don't want that crazy man coming here.”

“But she was pregnant,” Savich said.

“Yes, evidently, but not very far along, not more than six or seven weeks. That's what the doctor said. After the autopsy, they knew, naturally, that she'd just miscarried, but since it wasn't relevant to anything, they didn't mention it. The press never got hold of it, thank God. It would have caused more pain. Was Douglas the father? I've never had reason to suspect he wasn't.”

“It would have also caused more outrage,” Sherlock said.

“No, not unless they led the public to think the miscarriage was tied to her murder, and it wasn't.”

But Sherlock wasn't so certain. Actually, as she told Dillon later as she walked him to the guest room where he was staying, “There are more than simple loose ends here. There are ends that don't seem to have any beginning.” She sighed, staring down at her navy pumps. Candice was right. She looked dowdy and uninteresting. How then could she be a slut at the same time?

Savich pulled her against him, lightly pressing her face against his shoulder. “I know what you mean. It's infuriating. Everything that comes out of your mother's mouth makes Alice's Wonderland look like MIT. How long has she been like this, Sherlock?”

“As long as I can remember. She's more so now, I think. But I don't see her all that often anymore.”

“Do you think she could be doing some of this to gain your father's attention?”

“Oh yes. But how much of it is real and how much is her own playacting? I don't know.”

“I don't either.”

“And my father?”

“I don't know,” he said slowly, leaned down and kissed her left ear. “I just don't know. He's slippery, hard for me to read. But you know, Sherlock, it's tough not to like him.”

“I like him too, most of the time,” Lacey said and looked up at his mouth. “Do you really want to marry me now that you've met my mother and father?”

“Unfair. But you haven't met my family yet. Now there's a scary bunch. Actually, they're going to be so grateful that you're taking me on that they'll probably try really hard not to be weird around you, at least until after we're married. Then, no guarantees. Oh yes, Sherlock, we're all alone here in the corridor. I think now's the time. Will you marry me?”

“Yes, I will.”

He kissed her. It was sweet and warm and he tried very hard not to overwhelm her with his need, which was growing by leaps and bounds. But then she pushed him against the wall, pressing herself up tight against him. “You feel delicious,” she said into his mouth, her breath warm and dark from the espresso. “You taste even better. Dillon, are you sure you want to marry me? We haven't known each other all that long. We've been stressed-out since we met. Nothing's been normal or natural.”

“Sure it has. I kicked your butt in Hogan's Alley and at the gym. What's more natural than that? I've cooked my pasta for you. I've fed you pizza at Dizzy Dan's. You've slept in my house. I think we've got great experience going into this. Besides, the sex isn't bad either, except it's been so long that I'm having a tough time remembering all the details, any of the details, actually.”

She kissed his chin, his jaw, lightly bit his earlobe. “I don't understand how you've managed to stay footloose for four whole years.”

“I run fast and I don't chase too well. Actually, I guess I was waiting for you. Nobody else, just you. I'm more surprised that no one snapped you up.”

“I was so locked in the past, locked into only one path, all of it focused on Belinda. What will we do?”

He said as he slowly traced the buttons of her blouse, “I have this inescapable feeling that everything revolves around Belinda, not Marlin, not Douglas, not anybody else, just Belinda. I don't think anyone ever really knew who she was. I'd like to see pictures of her around the time she was killed. Do you have any albums?”

“Yes. I hope Mother didn't throw them away. Would you like to see them now?”

“Nope. We're still on East Coast time, so it feels like three hours later than it is. I want to get some sleep. Actually I want to sleep with you, but that wouldn't be right, not in your parents' house. Besides, your mother is so worried that we're shacking up, she just might go on patrol tonight to make certain we're separated.”

She laughed. “Mother is a hoot, isn't she? You never know what will come out of her mouth. But it seems she's gone even more around the bend lately. Lots of it might be an act. Who knows? She's not going to change. But it still scares me because some of what she says just might be true. Did my father really try to kill her? Run her down in his BMW?”

“If he did, at least he knows she's told us about it. Your father isn't stupid. If he did do it deliberately, it won't happen again.”

“I don't want my mother to die, Dillon.”

He brought her close. “She won't. Everything will be all right. I'll even have a chat with your father, to make sure he understands completely.”

Much later, when Sherlock was on the edge of sleep, she thought,
Who were you, Belinda?

It was dawn, the bedroom a soft, vague gray, and chilly. She woke up slowly. Someone was shaking her arm, someone speaking to her. “Sherlock, we've got a problem. Come on, wake up.”

He was lightly caressing her upper arms, then lightly tapped her face. She blinked up at him. “Dillon? I'm so glad it's you. I thought it was someone else, another nightmare. What's wrong? Did Mother try to run you off the property?”

He sat down beside her and she reached for him. He took her hands in his and held them tightly. “No, that I could have handled. Listen to me, Sherlock. It's Marlin Jones. Brace yourself—he's escaped.”

She stared up at him, slowly shaking her head on the pillow. “No, that's impossible. A prisoner doesn't escape nowadays, except in the movies. There's no way Marlin could have gotten away. There were cops all over him. He even went to the bathroom with a cop on either side of him. Besides, he was wearing more shackles than an Alabama chain gang. This has to be an early-morning joke, right, Dillon?”

“I'm sorry, Sherlock, he's gone. The court had ordered him taken to the Massachusetts State Institute for more psychological testing. The doctors there blew fits when they saw the guards and all the restraints—he had full leg shackles. They complained they'd never get anything meaningful out of him, that they'd never gain any true and accurate testing results unless Marlin could trust them, the doctors. The cops refused, naturally. The doctors called the judge who'd dictated more testing. The judge ordered the cops to remove the shackles, even the handcuffs. The cops were even ordered to wait outside the room. The long and the short of it—Marlin hit two doctors over the head, smashed an orderly's jaw, knocked him unconscious, and got out through a bathroom window that was right off the office. They haven't recaptured him yet. They didn't know he'd escaped until the orderly regained consciousness and staggered out to tell them.”

She was fully awake now, sitting up, rubbing her arms with her hands. “How did you find out?”

“Mr. Maitland called me about thirty minutes ago, said the cops called him, but it had been on TV even before they bothered to telephone. He got hold of the FBI in Boston and put them on it big-time. He made it sound like everything was in complete disarray.”

“Do you think maybe that judge who ordered Marlin Jones released will now be under the bench instead of sitting on it?”

“There'll be big-time fallout. Hopefully that nitwit judge will either swear he's seen the light or he'll go down, which is what he deserves. Get on your robe and let's get downstairs. Isabelle's made us some tea and warmed up some rolls.”

Ten minutes later they were downstairs in Judge Sherlock's lair watching TV. They'd just turned on the big set when a news bulletin flashed on. A big black-and-white photo of Marlin Jones filled the screen. A newswoman's voice said, “…The manhunt has extended in all directions now. The FBI, state and local police are all trying to find the alleged killer of more than eight women.” The picture then flashed to the newsroom. A beautiful blond woman, not more than twenty-eight, was beaming at the camera, saying in her happy, perfect voice, “It's just been learned that the FBI agent, Lacey Sherlock, who was instrumental in catching Marlin Jones in Boston, is the sister of one of the women he allegedly murdered in San Francisco seven years ago. What this means isn't exactly clear, but John Bullock, Marlin Jones's lawyer, has said his client was entrapped all along by the FBI.”

“It's out,” Savich said, and sighed. “I wonder who told them.”

“Oh no.” A photo of Sherlock appeared on the TV screen. The newswoman was saying, “Agent Sherlock has been with the FBI for only five months now. It's said that the reason she joined was to catch her sister's killer.” The newswoman gave a dazzling smile to the people watching her. “It appears she succeeded, but now, no one can say what will happen once Marlin Jones is recaptured. Let's switch to Ned Bramlock, our affiliate in Boston. Ned?”

They watched in silence as the cops in the Boston PD stood in stiff and angry silence. The local FBI representative stood behind the small group, saying nothing.

Ned Bramlock, who wore Italian tasseled loafers and had a full head of beautiful chestnut hair, said as he managed to furrow his brow in concern, “We've tried to speak to Judge Sedgewick who issued the order to the police officers to release Marlin Jones, but he's refusing comment at this time.” They switched to an ACLU lawyer, who claimed what the judge did was exactly correct since to have refused to allow the alleged killer privacy for the testing would have been a violation of his civil rights. They switched to another judge, this one retired, who said flatly that Judge Sedgewick was an idiot without a lick of judgment or sense.

Savich turned off the TV set. He stretched. “Let's go work out.”

She rose. “Yes, let's go. There's a World Gym just two blocks from here, down on Union Street. It's open at six
A.M.
It's nearly seven-thirty now.”

By the time they'd finished, Lacey was so exhausted, even her rage was dampened somewhat, at least until she could breathe normally again. They walked home, holding hands.

“It's going to be a beautiful day.”

“It usually is in San Francisco,” she said. “Even when the fog comes rolling through the Golden Gate, it's breathtaking. The fog makes it more lovely.” She fell silent.

“They'll catch him. He's got no money, no transportation. Everyone is looking for him. His photo is all over the TV. Someone will see him and they'll call the cops. Don't worry, Sherlock.”

She was thinking about Judge Sedgewick and what she'd like to do to the guy as they walked back to her parents' home. As they turned onto Broadway, she spotted three local TV station vans and a good dozen people equipped with cameras and microphones parked in her parents' front yard. They heard Isabelle yelling, “Get out of here, you vultures, go! Scat!”

“Come on, ma'am, tell Agent Sherlock we're here. We need to talk to her for a little while.”

“Yeah, the public's got a right to know.”

“Hey, did you know her sister, Belinda Madigan? Is it true that Lacey joined the FBI just to bring down Marlin Jones?”

“Is it true she entrapped Jones?”

Isabelle looked ready to kill. She raised her hands, palms out. To Sherlock's surprise, the rowdy group quieted down instantly. She said in a voice that carried to the end of the block, “Go talk to that moronic judge who made the police remove Marlin Jones's restraints. Maybe he can take that killer's place until he's caught again.”

“Good for her,” Savich said.

Sherlock pulled out her cell and called her parents' house.

“Sherlock residence.”

“Isabelle? It's Lacey. We saw them all in time. You did great, told the reporters the truth. Is Dad there?”

“Yes, just a moment, Lacey. I'm glad you're out of here. The reporters are planning to camp out here, I think. How did they know you were here?”

Hannah, she thought with sudden insight. Hannah hated her guts. She'd do anything to hurt her. “We'll find out, Isabelle. Get Dad for me.”

Twenty minutes later they were picked up by Danny Elbright, one of Judge Sherlock's clerks. He had their luggage in the trunk. “Isabelle carried everything out the back and I swung around to pick up the luggage.

“Judge Sherlock called the airline and got you on a flight leaving at ten o'clock
A.M.
Is this all right?”

“That's great,” Savich said. He stretched out, leaned back his head, and closed his eyes. “What a day and it's only nine o'clock in the morning. I hope the media aren't smart enough to call the airlines yet.”

“Don't worry about me, Lacey,” Danny Elbright said, looking at her in the rearview mirror. “I know if I ever opened my mouth your daddy would send me up the big river. I won't say a word. I want you to catch this creep. Wasn't Isabelle a kick? I'll bet she'll be all over the news.”

Lacey said, “Thanks, Danny. Hey, maybe Marlin's been caught as we speak.”

“Let's see.” Danny turned on the radio and began station surfing.

By the time their plane left San Francisco International, Marlin Jones was still on the loose. He'd been free for five hours and twenty minutes. There were two seats left in First Class, and Judge Sherlock had snagged them. Both Savich and Sherlock were relieved when no one recognized them at the airport.

“You'll be staying with me,” Savich said as he took a glass of orange juice from a flight attendant. “We're not going to take any chances.”

“All right,” she said, and stared down at where Yosemite would be if only they had been sitting on the right side of the airplane instead of the left.

“I know you're scared. Don't be.”

“Actually I'm furious, not scared. There's no reason why Marlin would come after me. You know he's not crazy, and he'd have to be totally off the deep end to fixate on getting back at me.

“What I can't believe is that a judge—a person who's supposed to have a tad of common sense—would even listen to those idiot shrinks and their ridiculous demands.”

“Well, I'll bet you no judge is going to pull that kind of stunt again anytime soon. This was an aberration, Sherlock, an unfortunate blip. Everyone will raise hell and the ACLU will look like idiots for defending the judge's ruling.

“Also, it turns out one of the doctors might not make it. The other doctor has a severe concussion, according to the news. As for the orderly, his jaw's broken and he has a lump over his left ear the size of a hockey puck. You can bet next week's paycheck that restraints will be left on prisoners in the future. If that doctor dies, the hole Marlin's in will be so deep he'll never see the sunshine again.”

Savich took her hand. “We'll see. I do wonder where Marlin's daddy is. I have this feeling he's still out there, still kicking around. What's he doing, I wonder? Does Marlin know where he is? Is Marlin going to see him? Could Erasmus have been the one to come after you in Washington? Could he have been the one to hit me in Boston? Have Marlin and his daddy possibly been in contact and maybe even now are in cahoots?”

She sucked in her breath. “I was thinking the same thing. But as to the father-and-son-duo idea, I don't know if it's another seemingly random piece to the puzzle or a major gluing piece.”

“I think it says a lot about how well we're suited that I understand exactly what you just said.” He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers. He looked deep into her eyes. He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. His fingers lightly caressed her ear. “Hey, gorgeous, what do you want from this gourmet lunch menu?”

 

MARLIN
Jones was still free when they arrived at Savich's house at seven-thirty that evening.

There were no reporters waiting for them.

“If they're anywhere, it's at your town house. Another excellent reason for staying here with me.”

“Yes,” she said and followed him in. “I hope Hannah doesn't tell them where I probably am.”

“I'm going to call Mr. Maitland and let him know we're back. And Ollie. Yeah, I think I'll give Hannah a ring. I think you're right. She's probably behind the leak. I'm beginning to think this might be a good time for her to transfer to another section. She'd better keep her mouth shut from now on or she'll be out of the Bureau.”

“Maybe she's not the one who talked.”

“We'll see. You unpack and then relax. We'll have dinner in. I've got some great spinach lasagna in the freezer that I made a while back. You'll love it.”

“I think I'd rather have Dizzy Dan's pizza. Do they deliver?”

“They will for me.” He frowned at her, then strode back to her, grabbed her, and pulled her tightly against him. “It's going to be all right. We'll get through this. Marlin will be in jail again by tomorrow morning, you'll see. All the FBI's in on this, big-time. I don't think I've ever seen Mr. Maitland so pissed. Marlin doesn't stand a chance.”

But she didn't know if she agreed. Marlin Jones was out there. She nodded though, saying nothing, and laid her cheek against his shoulder.

 

HER
clothes went into his closet, her shoes on the floor beside his size-twelve wing tips and gym shoes. Her underwear went in the second drawer of the dresser. And when he was kissing his way down her body, his mouth against her, she forgot everything but him and what he was making her feel. She yelled and arced upward and told him between gasping breaths, “I love you, Dillon. Just in case you didn't hear me the first time, I'll marry you. You're the best.”

“Good. Don't forget it,” he said, staring down at her, and came into her.

It was nearly morning when Savich came slowly awake, aware that something strange was happening, something that was probably better than any pesto pasta he'd ever made, better even than having won a huge bet off one of his relatives. The something strange suddenly intensified and he lurched up, gasping. She was leaning over him, her tangled hair covering his belly, her mouth on him.