He’d used his right hand when he’d shot that officer.
Savich had shot Tammy Tuttle through her right arm in that barn in Maryland, near the Plum River.
At the hospital, they’d amputated her right arm.
He wondered if they were all going mad.
No, no, there was an explanation.
Somehow a man had gotten into the airport, killed Virginia Cosgrove, and grabbed Marilyn. And no one had seen him until he had Marilyn by the neck and was dragging her away.
No one much wanted to talk. Everyone who had been in the airport appeared confused and looked, strangely, hungover.
Savich and his team went back to the security room. Sherlock was still unconscious, covered with blankets, a local physician sitting on the floor beside her.
No one had much to say. Jimmy Maitland was sitting in a chair near Sherlock.
Savich picked up his wife, carried her to a chair, and sat down with her in his arms. He rocked her, never looking away from her face.
“It’s as if she’s asleep,” the physician said, standing now beside him. “Just asleep. She should wake up soon and tell us what happened.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “We’ve put out an island-wide alert for Timmy Tuttle, with description, and Marilyn Warluski, with description. The three agents with Sherlock didn’t see a single blessed thing. Nada.”
Savich nodded, touched his wife’s hair. He didn’t think he’d be surprised by anything ever again.
A few minutes later, Sherlock opened her eyes. She looked up and, surprisingly, smiled. “You’re holding me, Dillon. Why? What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” He spoke very slowly, the words not really wanting to speak themselves, probably because he didn’t want an answer.
She closed her eyes for a moment, frowned, then said, “I remember I ran into this room, three other agents behind me. No one was here.” She frowned. “No, I’m not sure. There was something-a light maybe-something. I can’t remember.”
“When I came in, you were standing perfectly still, staring out that big window. The other agents were searching the room. But you didn’t move, didn’t twitch or anything, and then you just fell over.”
Jimmy Maitland said, “Did you see anything of Timmy Tuttle or Marilyn?”
Sherlock said, “Timmy Tuttle-yes, that crazy-looking guy who was as pale as an apocalypse horseman-yes, I remember. He was holding Marilyn around her neck-a knife, yes, he had a knife. I was terrified when I saw Dillon go in after him into that conference room.”
“You saw Timmy go into the conference room?”
“I think so. But that can’t be right. Didn’t he come in here?”
“We don’t know. None of the agents saw him in here,” Savich said. “No, Sherlock, that’s okay. You just rest now. You’ll probably remember more once you get yourself together. Does your head ache?”
“A bit, why?”
“You feel maybe a bit like you’re hungover?”
“Well, yes, that’s right.”
Savich looked up at Jimmy Maitland and nodded. “Everyone I’ve spoken to, agents and civilians alike, everyone feels like that.”
“Sherlock,” Maitland said, crouching down beside her. “Why was it just you who collapsed? You must have seen something.”
“I’m thinking, sir, as hard as I can.”
Dillon slowly eased her up until she was sitting on his lap. She started shaking. Savich nearly lost it. He pulled her hard against him, protecting her, from what, he didn’t know. He just didn’t want her hurt, no more hurt, no more monsters from the unknown.
Then she said, pulling away from him just a little bit, her voice firm and steady, “Dillon, I’m all right. I promise. I’ve got stuff to think about. Something really weird happened, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s there, in the back of my brain, and I’ll get it out.”
20
Eureka, California
Morrie Jones stared at the young woman who had taken him down, hurt him, dammit, before he could get away from her. He just couldn’t believe it. She was skinny, looked like a damned little debutante with her blond hair and blue eyes and innocent face, like the prototypical little WASP. That damned lawyer of his had even told him that she’d been recovering from surgery and she’d still stomped his ass. He really wanted to hurt her. Hell, he’d even do it for free, this time.
He said to Simon, “You claimed I didn’t need my lawyer, that you just wanted to talk to me, that you had something to offer that I couldn’t refuse. You from the DA’s office?”
Simon said, “No, but I have her approval. I see you remember Ms. Savich.”
“Nah, I heard her name was Frasier. I know that’s right because that’s the name of the broad I’m going to sue for attacking me.”
Lily gave him a big smile. “You go ahead and sue me, boyo, and I’ll just smack your face off again. What do you think?” She cracked her knuckles, a sound Morrie Jones had hated since he was a kid and his old man did it whenever he was drunk.
“Stop that,” Morrie said, staring at her hands. “Why’d the cops let you two in here?”
She cracked her knuckles again, something she’d rarely done since she was a bookie and some kid from another neighborhood had threatened to horn in on her territory. “What’s the matter, Morrie? I still scare you?”
“Shut up, you bitch.”
“Call me a bitch again and I’ll make you eat your tongue.” She gave him a sweet smile, with one dimple.
Simon said, “All right, that’s enough. Listen up, Morrie. We want you to tell us who hired you. It could save your life.”
Morrie started whistling “Old Man River.”
Lily laughed. “Come on, Morrie, spare us. You got a brain? Use it. Herman Monk is dead, shot three times in the back.”
“I don’t know no Herman Monk. Sounds like a geek. Don’t know him.”
That could be true. Simon said, “Monk was a loose end. He’s dead. You’re a loose end, too, Morrie. Just think about your lawyer for a moment. Who is he? Who sent him? Who’s paying his bill? Do you really think he’s going to try to get you off?”
“I hired him. He’s a real good friend, a drinking buddy. We watch the fights together down at Sam’s Sports Bar, you know, over on Cliff Street.”
Lily said, as she tapped her fingers on the Formica surface, split down the middle by bars, with Simon and Lily on one side, Morrie on the other, “He’s setting you up, Morrie. You too stupid to use your brain? You know he told the sheriff that he took your case pro bono?”
“I want a cigarette.”
“Don’t be a moron. You want to die, hacking up your lungs? He said he took you on for free, out of the goodness of his heart. I want you to just think about all this. What did your lawyer promise you?”
“He said I was getting out of here, today.”
“Yeah, we heard,” Simon said, and it was true, according to Lieutenant Dobbs. The judge had called and was prepared to set bail. “You know what’s going to happen then?”
“Yeah, I’m going to go get me a beer.”
“That’s possible,” Lily said. “I hope you really enjoy it, Morrie, because you’re going to be dead by morning. These people really hate loose ends.”
Morrie said, “Who did you say this Monk geek was?”
Lily said, “He was the curator of the museum where my grandmother’s paintings were displayed. He was part of the group who had four of the paintings copied, the originals replaced with the fakes. When it all came out, when it was obvious that things were unraveling, he was shot in the back. That’s why they wanted you to kill me. They were my paintings and here I am doing what they knew I’d do-stirring things up until I find out who stole my paintings. I wonder how long before they shoot you, Morrie.”