Savich said, “Yes.”
Dr. Post pointed at Rachael. “She told me she isn’t his wife.”
Sherlock said, “No, she isn’t, but he’s going to think I’m his mother when he wakes up, because I’m going to chew his butt for scaringussobadly.”
Dr. Post laughed. “Okay, are you going to tell me what’s happening? The reason I’m asking is right after these two staggered into my clinic, I heard an ambulance heading through town, sirens blasting. Is someone else hurt?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Thank you for taking care of him.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Post.
Savich looked at Rachael. “So you’re Jack’s savior.”
Rachael still couldn’t believe it. FBI agents, all three of them. When she and Jack had stumbled up the steps to the clinic, Dr. Post was unlocking the front door, balancing a cup of coffee in his free hand. Jack had pulled out his ID and flashed it to the startled doctor.
And she thought again, why couldn’t Jack have been a nice rent-a-pilot? No, he was an FBI agent, a fed whose bosses could be all chummy with Quincy and Laurel, who might be bought or influenced, defer to them because of their power—no, she wasn’t going there. They believe I’m dead. They’ve got to keep believing that.
As long as these three federal agents didn’t find out her full name, she was safe, she’d be okay. She’d still be dead.
She knew every bureaucracy leaked like a sieve, the FBI included. No, she’d be very careful, she’d lie well, a novel experience for her. She smiled. “I’m Rachael.” She shook their hands.
Savich said, “I understand you watched Agent Crowne’s plane come down and you helped both Jack and Dr. MacLean.” He stepped forward, stuck out his hand. “We’d like to thank you for seeing to them, Ms... .”
I’m the most fluent liar in the world, I’m the coolest, the smoothest —”Rachael Abercrombie.”
A lie, Savich thought, and wasn’t that strange? He said, smiling at her, “Yes, thank you, Ms. Abercrombie. The medevac took Dr. MacLean to Franklin County Hospital about twenty minutes ago. We don’t know his condition yet. I called your sheriff.”
“Oh no, he’s not my sheriff, Agent Savich. I’ve never been to Parlow before. I’m only passing through.”
Savich nodded, but his head cocked to the side, and he studied her face closely. Looking at that small clever braid, he decided Sherlock would look very sexy with one. “Well then, we’re all strangers here. Hopefully the sheriff will come soon.”
Dr. Post saw the big tough-looking man look down at—of all things—a Mickey Mouse watch, and frown.
‘We owe you big-time, Ms. Abercrombie,” said Sherlock.
“Oh no, please,” said Rachael, “Jack saved both of them. He pulled Dr. MacLean out of the plane before it exploded. I didn’t do all that much—call me the mule.”
Dr. Post said, “Deliah—that’s Nurse Harmon—told me Dougie—that’s Sheriff Hollyfield—had a septic tank problem this morning and that’s why he’s running a bit late. But he’ll get here, he always does.” He looked at them all closely. “I’ve never met any FBI agents before.”
Sherlock said, “He eats Cheerios for breakfast with our son, Sean,” and smiled. “I eat a slice of wheat toast with crunchy peanut butter.”
Dr. Post laughed. “Just plain folk? Maybe, but not to me. The two of you, you’re both FBI agents and you’re married, and you work together?”
“That’s right,” Savich said.
Dr. Post picked up Jack’s gun, which was sitting on top of the counter, next to his dirty, ripped slacks. “My dad owned a Kimber Gold Match 11. It’s a fine gun.”
“Agent Crowne believes it’s efficient,” Savich said easily, and held out his hand. Dr. Post gave him the Kimber, butt first.
“A ten-round magazine?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “And one in the pipe for eleven rounds at your fingertips.”
Rachael tuned them out. She looked hungrily at the gun now in Agent Savich’s hand. She’d wanted to steal it the moment she’d seen Dr. Post unclip it from Jack’s belt, but now it was too late. She couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t noticed it earlier, felt it, for heaven’s sake, when she was walking beside him, supporting his weight. It had been a rather hectic morning. She didn’t need a gun. All she needed to do was to keep her head. These agents had no idea who she was, where she lived, what she was doing when she’d come across Jack, and she had no intention of telling them anything. She had to remain anonymous, she had to remain dead. At least the two agents were focused on Jack.
But she didn’t like the way Agent Savich had looked at her, like he knew she was lying but wasn’t going to call her on it, and why should he? She wasn’t his concern, not any of their concern. As soon as she got her fuel pump replaced, she’d be out of Parlow and hiding in Slipper Hollow, deep in the forests lacing the rolling Kentucky hills that stretched out like an accordion.
Time to take charge, time to get moving. She smiled at the two agents and said brightly, “Well, since you’re here, I’ll be off. I have to get my car fixed. Then I’ve got places to go, deadlines to meet. Like I said, I don’t live here—Parlow, is it?—my car had just broken down when I saw Jack land the plane in Cudlow Valley. It’s not been particularly fun, but at least it turned out okay.”
Let’s hear it for a gigantic dose of overkill —keep your mouth shut.
Sherlock cocked her head, but didn’t say anything.
Nurse Harmon stuck her head in the door. “Dr. Post, we’ve got patients piling up out here, and Dr. Reimer called. Her little boy is throwing up and she doesn’t know when she’s going to make it in. Jimmy Bunt hurt his leg falling off his daddy’s tractor, looks broken. He’s making a racket, disturbing Mrs. Mason, who’s telling everyone she’s about to go into labor, although she shouldn’t, not for another three weeks.”
Dr. Post was out the door, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be retiring in twenty years.”
Sherlock saw Rachael take one more long look at Jack, frown at a clump of bloody hair. She watched her grab the washcloth and begin carefully wiping away the blood. Well, she had saved him, it made sense she’d care enough to clean him up.
Rachael was a name Sherlock had always liked, but Abercrombie? As in Fitch’s partner? Hmmm. She saw a faint line of freckles marching across Rachael’s nose. That beautiful hair of hers, all long and smooth with streaky highlights, very nicely done, and that clever braid on the side. She’d have to ask Dillon what he thought of the braid. As for Rachael’s eyes, they were dark blue and—what? Afraid. Yes, she was afraid, and her chewed nails took away any doubt. But afraid of what? Of them because they were cops? Was she running from an abusive husband? Sherlock knew their plates were full, but still, this woman had saved Jack. Whatever was wrong, she was ready and willing to help her.
She said to Rachael, “Do you know Jack’s been injured only once before this? He was stabbed in the side by a crazed heroin addict. Amazing, really, since he spent four years in the FBI’s Elite Crime Unit. He’s already faced more horrific situations than most agents do in a lifetime. He burned out, no wonder, but instead of leaving the FBI to go practice law, Dillon talked him into transferring to his unit, the CAU—the Criminal Apprehension Unit.”
“Ah, well, that’s very interesting,” Rachael said, and tossed the washcloth back into the sink, her eyes now on the door. She gave them a big smile. “It was a pleasure to meet both of you. I’m off now, good-bye,” and she started walking around them.
Sherlock lightly laid her hand on Rachael’s arm. “Jack’s a very good agent and a very good man.” Rachael was wearing a soft beige cashmere V-necked sweater with a white oxford blouse beneath it, very expensive, Sherlock thought. The boots she was wearing looked so soft you could butter toast with them. But she looked strung out. Sherlock smiled.