Backfire (25 page)

San Francisco General Hospital

Wednesday morning

Sherlock touched strands of bloody hair at the edge of the white bandage wrapped around her head that made her look like she’d walked out of a war zone. She wanted to do something about that before Dillon returned. She said to the nurse, “When can I get this white towel off my head? When can I wash my hair?”

“Actually, you look sort of cute with the white towel,” Nurse Washington said, patting her hand. “Once Dr. Kardak examines you, we’ll get your hair washed and change out the dressing for an adhesive strip that will cover your sutures. So how are you feeling, Agent Sherlock? Any headaches, dizziness, nausea? Were you able to sleep?”

Sherlock said, “The headache’s better this morning; it comes and goes. I felt a little dizzy when I first stood up. That’s about it.”

“Have you felt disoriented at all? Any mental side trips? Ah, here’s Dr. Kardak, to look at both you and Judge Hunt.”

Dr. Kardak said good morning to her and to Ramsey, then took her chart from Nurse Washington and hummed in approval as he read it. He looked up at her. “I heard Nurse Washington ask if you had any disorientation, any mental side trips? An interesting way of putting it, yet perfectly clear.”

“Harry Potter World might be fun, but no, I haven’t been taking any trips in my head. My orientation’s fine.”

Dr. Kardak nodded, pulled the curtain around them for privacy, and leaned down to plant his stethoscope on her chest. “You’ve had a mild traumatic brain injury,” he said. “You can expect the symptoms you’re having—what we call the post-concussion syndrome—to last a week or so, maybe longer. Now, I’m going to need your patience because we’re going to repeat the neurologic exam you had yesterday and ask you a few questions to test your memory, okay?”

“As long as we don’t forget to wash my hair,” Sherlock said.

When Dr. Kardak finished, he straightened, studied her face silently for a moment. “Your balance, your strength, your reflexes, your memory, everything looks good. I have to say, Agent, you’re the luckiest patient I’ve treated in some time. Your scan from yesterday looks normal, except for your scalp injury. To be shot in the head and sustain no structural brain injury or bleeding, no cracked skull, no visible swelling, is amazing. I would think, though, that most people who’ve had your experience might consider a career change.”

Sherlock said, “I realize I was incredibly lucky and I am immensely grateful for that. To be honest here, what happened at the Fairmont, well, I guess you could say it came out of the blue, so there was no way to do my job and avoid it.” She grinned up at him. “It could have happened to anyone.”

He said, “In that case, Agent Sherlock, I hope your luck continues for your next three lifetimes. As for your husband, I must tell you the man’s a wreck, but, naturally, he believes he has to appear calm and in control around you. My prescription is for both of you to take a break and hug each other really tight, all right?”

Sherlock nodded and felt a stab of guilt. With so much flying around them, they couldn’t take a break, but she surely could hug him. She said, “Yes, I can do that.”

“I want you to rest this morning, and by that I mean no chatting up Judge Dredd here. If you’re not sleeping, you’re to lie here nice and calm and quiet. I’ll leave the curtain between the two of you so you’re not tempted to talk shop. With a bullet wound such as you’ve had, I like to repeat the CT scan to make sure there’s no delayed swelling or bleeding. I doubt there will be. If everything looks good I want you to continue resting this afternoon, let your brain and body settle and heal. Depending on how you feel, we can talk this afternoon about whether we’ll have the pleasure of your company through Thanksgiving, Agent Sherlock. How does it sound if we plan to release you Friday morning?”

“No can do, Dr. Kardak. I’ve got a five-year-old son who doesn’t need to see his mother lying in a hospital bed. I’d like to leave this afternoon.”

He studied her face for a moment. “Five years old, you say? What’s his name?”

“Sean. He’s the image of his papa. He plans to marry three different girls. He’s also planning on working three jobs so they’ll all be happy.”

Dr. Kardak chuckled. “Sean sounds like my kid Peter, all mouth and laughter and boundless energy. There aren’t any girls yet on Peter’s somewhat limited horizon.” He looked toward the curtain, called out, “Judge Hunt, how long have you two known each other?”

“More than five years,” Ramsey said from behind the curtain. “When I first met Sherlock, she was three months pregnant, throwing up whenever anyone in her hearing said the word
pregnant.
”

“Oh, goodness, I’d forgotten,” Sherlock said. “I remember belting Dillon a couple of times when he let the word slip out.”

Dr. Kardak pursed his lips. “I’m going to mention that to one of my shrink friends.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s a practicing Freudian therapist. I shudder to think what he’ll have to say.” He studied Sherlock for a moment longer. “Very well, if nothing unexpected shows up, you may go home, but you’re to rest, let everyone wait on you. You are not to bake even the sweet-potato casserole, you understand me?”

Sherlock nodded. “I won’t even make my sausage stuffing. Promise.”

“You may, however, eat as much as you want.” He pulled the curtain open and nodded toward Ramsey. “As for Judge Dredd here, he gets to enjoy our hospitality for a while longer. I understand there’s to be a Thanksgiving feast here in the room tomorrow. The floor staff can’t talk about much else. The chef told my assistant he was even preparing a surprise for your dinner. I’m thinking I might drop by, see if there are any leftovers. Maybe watch one of the football games.”

When he left ten minutes later, Sherlock heard Dillon speaking to Dr. Kardak outside in the hall. When Dillon came into the room, he was smiling and carrying two cups of coffee. Sherlock held her arms out to him.

San Francisco General Hospital

Wednesday morning

Molly sat beside her sleeping husband, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. He looked thin, she thought, even with all the extra meals the nurses brought in for him. He wasn’t eating enough, despite their efforts. It was the pain and dependence and niggling fear, she imagined, fear for her, and for Emma, and for the boys.

Molly laid her cheek against his shoulder and wondered for the dozenth time who the man was who had shot him. Who hated him, and Dillon, so much?

At least Sherlock was going home after her brain scan. Molly looked at the big hand of the clock on the wall. Sherlock would be back soon. Deputy Marshal Ray Rozan was with her, her Kevlar vest, Sherlock called him. As for Savich, he hadn’t budged an inch from her side until the phone call. The call was short. When he’d punched off his cell, he’d looked at his wife and she’d told him with no hesitation, “Go. I’ll be fine with Deputy Rozan.” That was it. Molly knew the call had to be urgent to make him leave Sherlock. She admired Sherlock’s restraint. She hadn’t asked him what had happened, and he hadn’t said a thing.

Molly thought Sherlock looked perfectly fine to go home when they’d helped her into a wheelchair for her CT scan. Having all the dried blood washed out of her hair and the clunky bandage replaced with a strip of plastic tape had made a huge difference.

Molly looked toward Officer Lamar Marks standing beside the window, staring down into the parking lot. Was he thinking about Thanksgiving tomorrow? She knew he wasn’t on duty tomorrow, since he had three kids and a truckload of relatives coming to his house. Another SFPD officer had volunteered. He’d eat very well for it, she thought, smiling.

But maybe Officer Marks was thinking about the same thing Molly was:
There were
two separate killers.
It was difficult to accept that that could be possible, yet everyone had always wondered,
Why would Xu shoot Ramsey?

“Molly?”

She looked up to see Dillon standing in the doorway.

“Sherlock’s still getting her tests?”

She replied in a whisper, “She should be back soon, Dillon; that’s what the nurse told me. Ramsey’s sleeping, which is excellent. What happened? Who called you?”

He smiled at her shotgun questions, motioned for her to join him at the door. “A Chinese physician was found murdered early this morning in his office in Sausalito. There was ample evidence Xu had been there yesterday. We understand the doctor closed his office that afternoon, sent everyone home. Xu was probably there already, demanding treatment. Given all the blood in the examining room, Xu was in bad shape.” He paused for a moment. “Dr. Mulan Chu was a primary-care doctor that Xu knew somehow. Perhaps he’d treated Xu before. It’s a pity Xu got to the doctor before he got the warning we were sending out.”

Molly said, “Why would Xu murder the doctor who’d saved his life, a doctor he knew?”

“We’re thinking Chu found out what Xu had done at the Fairmont. Virginia said there’d been a call from his number to the police department asking to speak to someone about the Fairmont fire, but the caller hung up. We’re thinking Xu overheard Dr. Chu dialing the cops, and that’s why he killed him.”

Ramsey said from behind them, “Do you think Xu is out of control, Savich?”

Savich and Molly walked back to Ramsey’s bedside. Savich said, “No, I don’t. I think he did what he believed he had to do to save himself. I think all Xu wants is to get out of Dodge, and he’s doing whatever he has to do to accomplish that. He’s not insane or going on some sort of mad killing spree. Not that it matters to Dr. Chu or his family.”

Savich looked over at Officer Lamar Marks, who looked like he’d been punched in the face. Savich knew exactly how he felt, since he’d felt the same way when Delion had first told him. Officer Marks said, “Xu better hope all he needs is this one doctor visit.”

True enough,
Savich thought.

Officer Marks said, “He could still end up in an emergency room somewhere.”

Ramsey said, “Lamar’s right. If he’s that bad off, then he’ll need more medical attention.”

Molly said, “Even if he can weather through it, Xu could still be stuck in bed for another week, Dillon.” She brightened. “Maybe he could die.”

“He’s certainly lost enough blood. Dr. Chu couldn’t have transfused him in his office.”

Officer Marks said, “No one saw him at the doctor’s office? No other staff, patients, passersby?”

“We have nothing so far. We do know Xu went to Dr. Chu’s clinic within an hour of his getting shot. The ME estimated Dr. Chu was dead within a couple of hours after that.”

“I wonder where Xu is holed up now?” Officer Marks said.

Savich heard some voices in the corridor behind him and quickly turned. He expected Sherlock, but it was a couple of orderlies. Where was Sherlock?

Savich bolted from the room and ran to the nurses’ station.

Sherlock was tapping her fingers. Why in heaven did everything take so long in a hospital? Well, okay, so she’d been sitting here in the patient waiting area only about ten minutes, but still. Where was a nurse, or the tech to wheel her in and get this business over and done?

She didn’t even need another brain scan. She sincerely hoped it wouldn’t include an injection. Her head was aching again, a slow series of dull thuds. She wanted to get out of here; she wanted to be able to kiss Dillon silly and hug Sean to her, have him pat her shoulder and ask her to play a computer game with him that it would be her responsibility to lose with dignity and guile.

Deputy Ray Rozan stood near the radiology waiting room door, his eyes always on the move, studying anyone for the slightest interest in coming within six feet of her. He was on edge, all the guards were, what with two maniacs out there. But it wasn’t Xu, it was the other unknown man that scared him. They had only a sketch and a description of him: slender build, an American, maybe older, but no one was really sure. Whatever his age, he’d been capable of that mad spree in the elevator on Saturday.

Ray looked over at Sherlock, knew she wanted nothing more than to go home. He watched her pull her cell phone out of the pocket of a dark blue bathrobe with lots of dog hair on it that Savich had brought in for her along with her cell. He’d heard Savich had returned the previous night to sleep on a cot not two feet from her hospital bed. Rozan wondered if he’d told her why he’d been called away. He probably hadn’t, since she didn’t look upset, only a bit anxious. And hurting a little, too, from the fixed expression in her eyes. Her hair looked better without the blood—a soft riot of curls now, so thick it nearly covered the small bandage over the head wound. It was hard to imagine the person in that bathrobe tackling Xu and bringing him down.

“You want me to go see what’s holding up these yahoos, Sherlock?”

She glanced down at her watch. “We can give them another couple of minutes. We’ll make it fifteen minutes, tops. I think I’ll call Dillon, see what’s happened.”

Rozan said it aloud: “Xu killed a physician, the one who treated him.”

She nodded. “Yes, I was told.” She closed her eyes against the stark knowledge of it. She’d been so close, she thought. She’d had Xu flat on his face against the sidewalk. If only she’d had time to get the other cuff on him. If only.

“We’re ready for your test now, Agent Sherlock.” Sherlock looked up to see a tall, lanky tech standing beside Deputy Rozan, wearing scrubs, a mask over his nose, green booties on his feet. He had a sheaf of papers in his gloved hand.

Deputy Rozan said, “I need to see your ID.”

The man turned, clearly startled. “Are you her husband, sir?”

“No, I’m Deputy Rozan. She’s in my care. Show me your ID, please.”

“Well, you can see my name tag, and here are the orders for Agent Sherlock’s CT scan, signed by Dr. Kardak.”

“Why don’t you have a hospital ID?”

“It’s in my locker. I usually wear it, but no one ever asks for it.”

“Then show me your driver’s license.”

Savich burst into the waiting room, saw the tech, masked, standing too close to Rozan, and raised his SIG. “Get back and drop to your knees!”

The man dropped Sherlock’s chart and fell to his knees on the floor. Savich, panting hard from running, stood over him.

The man looked up at him, obviously terrified. “Who are you? What did I do?”

Rozan said, “He didn’t have his hospital ID, and I’d just asked him for his driver’s license when you, ah, came in, Agent Savich.”

“Lose the mask,” Savich said.

The man pulled the ties loose. The mask fell off his face. “My name’s Terry Lempert; see, my name’s on my name tag. Why are you pointing that gun at me?”

Savich put his SIG back in his waist holster.

A nurse came to the door. “What’s going on here? Goodness, Terry, what did you do now?”

Sherlock said calmly, “Officer Rozan is my guard, and this is my husband. I guess you’d say he’s part of the guard detail for me. He thought this man was a threat to me. Do you know him? Can you verify he’s supposed to be here? To take me in for a CT scan?”

The nurse looked toward Rozan.

“Yes,” Rozan said. “Can you identify this man for us?”

She said, “I’ve known him for nearly ten years. It’s Terry Lempert. He’s been known to flirt with pretty patients, though, and I thought he’d gone over the top this time.” She watched the husband pull Terry to his feet.

“Very funny, Kaitlyn,” Terry said, dusting off his knees. “I wasn’t doing anything, really.”

Savich said, “Sorry, Mr. Lempert. You really should consider wearing your ID, given all that’s happened here the past week.”

Lempert said, “Yeah, oh, yes, right. You nearly made me mess myself.”

“He didn’t shoot you,” Officer Rozan said, and smiled, shook Lempert’s hand. “You’ll be fine. You did good.”

Savich walked to where Sherlock sat smiling, of all things, in her wheelchair. She laid her hand on his arm. “My hero.”

“Terry, go get your ID. Then you can take over Jonah’s case in room three. Jonah can deal with Agent Sherlock. Next time, don’t wear a mask when you fetch a patient. I’ve told you it freaks them out.” She shot a look at Savich. “And their husbands.”

Savich rested one hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sorry, Terry,” he said. “But if anything happened to Sherlock, I’d lose my job.”

Terry was very pleased to take over Jonah’s case, even if it was a ninety-year-old curmudgeon from Fresno who did nothing but cuss at him.