“Yeah, we’re fine,” Sherlock said.
Ben made his way over to one of the living room side windows, pulled the drapes tight. Once the room was shrouded, Ben turned on the light switches. Everyone blinked. Savich said, “All of you, stay away from the windows. No telling what that maniac might try. Thing is, after that first shot, he knew he was shooting blind, knew we wouldn’t just stand in the middle of the living room. So why did he keep firing?”
“He thought he might get lucky,” Ben said.
“But the chance he’d hit Fleurette?”
Sherlock said, “You know, I don’t think he cared. I think he wanted to terrify us, let us know he was close. I don’t know about the rest of you, but it worked for me.”
Callie came up on her hands and knees, and stared at Ben. Then she was on her feet, running at him. She grabbed him close and held on, her face buried in his shoulder. “I should kill you, you macho asshole, running out there like that and this madman with a gun, shooting like crazy. He’s a good shot, and he would be really happy to see you dead, even if you aren’t Fleurette. Dillon is right, he didn’t care who he hit, and here you were making that lame joke about dancing with him—if that’s an example of cop humor, you need a new writer.”
He holstered his gun in his belt, put his arms around her and hugged her. “Well, he wasn’t all that good a shot this time, was he? And he tried six times. If you start crying, I’m going to throw you out the front door.”
“I’m not crying, you jerk.”
Ben grinned down at her. “Good. I’m all right. He’s long gone. One thing Günter isn’t, is stupid. He knew cops would swarm here within minutes after he fired those shots. He had to know too that it would be a miracle if he got to Fleurette after the first miss. Maybe they’ll find his car, or one of the people who lives a couple of blocks over saw him running to his car, got the make. Maybe someone actually got a look at him.”
Sherlock said, looking around the shattered living room and at each of them in turn, “Günter took his shot, missed, but all of you know he’ll be back. He wants Fleurette dead and he’s not going to stop until it’s done or we get him first.”
Savich said, “We were lucky your parents weren’t here, Fleurette.”
Fleurette, still plastered against him, shuddered. “If they’d still been here, he might have shot one of them. I can’t stand this. I don’t understand why he’s doing this. I don’t know anything!”
Sean began humming, the sound very loud in the entrance hall. It made everyone smile, which was a good thing. Sherlock was standing to the side, close to the staircase, rocking him from one leg to the other. She said, between kisses on Sean’s cheek, “We’re all okay, but this was way too close. I’m thinking that to keep you completely safe, Fleurette, we need to take you to Quantico. No one could get near you there. Security could catch a runaway flea there. Little sucker could end up on the firing range.”
Fleurette looked shell-shocked, but she straightened, her eyes blinking as if waking from a dream. She looked toward Sherlock. “That was funny. You guys are so amazing, so—what if he’d hit Sean? I couldn’t take that. It would have been my fault.”
Sherlock’s voice was calm. “You know something, Fleurette? You’re right about one thing. I’m thinking about our boy too. He’ll be safer with you out at Quantico. This is the second time violence has come into our home. If it were just Dillon and me, that would be different, but Sean’s the important one, and we’re supposed to protect him. Now, no more angst from any of you. It’s done. I’ve got to clean up that coffee before it stains the floor, and then you’re going to Quantico, Fleurette. You can call your parents from there. They can visit you there for as long as they’re in town.”
Savich rose, took Sean from Sherlock, and began rocking him in exactly the same way she had, one large hand going up and down on his son’s back. “I really wish we didn’t have to tell your parents about this, Fleurette.”
“No choice, Dillon,” Callie said. “It was on the police radio, and soon it will be all over the news. I don’t see any choice. The media will descend any moment. And they’ll be all over us if we’re still here.”
Sherlock muttered under her breath at the coffee and tea spreading over the floor. She walked into the kitchen to get paper towels to clean it up. “Callie’s right, Dillon,” she said as she came back into the living room. “This is Georgetown. If the chef at Pamplona’s cuts his thumb chopping a carrot, it’s front page in the Post. Worse, this is an FBI agent’s house, who also happens to be the lead investigator on Justice Califano and Danny O’Malley and Eliza—” Her voice caught in her throat and she dropped to her knees and viciously wiped up the coffee and tea, in wide, heavy strokes, her pain palpable to Savich. Savich handed Sean to Ben, who nestled him into the crook of his arm, gathered up some more paper towels and helped her.
Fleurette and Callie stood silent, watching Ben rock Sean, and Savich and Sherlock clean up the spreading spill. The creamer ran into the seam where the wide oak planks met. “It’s a beautiful oak floor,” Fleurette said, and grabbed some paper towels and went after the creamer. “My mom said it was the prettiest floor she’d ever seen and she wondered how you kept it so nice what with Sean running all over the place. Will it stain?”
“No, it’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, took a final swipe and rose to her feet. “Callie, we don’t need you down here on your knees too. Thank you, Fleurette. There, all done. Hey, Ben, you’re a natural. Sean’s nearly out.”
Ben paused in his rocking and looked at her. Sherlock wanted to laugh, the expression on his face was so priceless. Then he said slowly, “Yeah, I guess I am a natural. Thing is, I’d be a natural too with a red Porsche.”
Callie laughed, got up, and walked to him. She punched him in the arm. “You are such a guy.” Then she cocked her head to one side as she looked at Sean, asleep in his arms. “Yeah, I guess you are a natural.”
A moment later there was pounding on the door. “Let’s get it over with,” Savich said and went to let in Jimmy Maitland and a half dozen FBI agents and Metro cops.
CHAPTER
32
JEFFERSON DORMITORY
QUANTICO
SUNDAY MORNING
DR. HICKS WAS flummoxed, and Savich knew why. Martin Thornton wasn’t going under. Something inside him was fighting the loss of control. Martin wasn’t going anywhere.
Savich wondered if this was Dr. Hicks’s first failure. It was just the three of them in Dr. Hicks’s small office; Janet was in the Quantico gym, working out with some students, who’d been assigned to keep an eye on her.
Dr. Hicks tried again. “Martin, listen to me carefully. I want you to relax, I want you to let yourself go. You’re safe, you do understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“No one’s going to hurt you. I know you want to remember. I know you want to know the truth about what happened on your sixth birthday. I’m here to help you do it, but you have to help me, you have to let go. Now, let’s try again. Concentrate on this bright silver dollar, keep your eyes on it, watch it swing back and forth and try to focus that brain of yours.”
Martin stared at the blur of silver as it swung back and forth several dozen times, until his eyes nearly glazed over. He finally shook his head, rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hicks. Nothing’s happening and believe me, you’re right, I want it to. I want to remember. I want to know what happened to my mother that day. You know what else? I want to remember what she looked like, what she smelled like. I know she wore a perfume like flowers, but I can’t smell it anymore. I’m beginning to believe I do know what happened that day. I want to see the man who killed my mom.”