Backfire (32 page)

Savich called out to the nurse still walking toward them, “It’s okay. Tell Judge Hunt I’ll be in to see him in a few minutes. Thank you.”

“Smart move,” Charlene said out of the side of her mouth, watching the nurse give Savich a smile and a finger wave and turn back to the nurses’ station.

“Cute little gal. From the look she gave you, I think she’d like to fool around with you. You faithful to your wife?”

Savich saw the nurse turn once more and look from him to Charlene, puzzled.
Keep going, everything’s okay. Keep all your mad attention on me, Charlene.

“Not going to say anything, huh? You’re probably not faithful, no guy is, including that dog of a husband I had, and do you want to know what—” She stopped again in mid-sentence.
Shut up, shut up, Charlene.

Savich opened the stair door and started climbing. What she was saying, it was bizarre, but it was more than that. It was as if her brain suddenly went skydiving, and she was barely able to bring herself back to focus. Could he use that?

They reached the fifth floor, two more floors to go. Thank God no one opened the doors. He wondered how much longer that luck would hold, kept glancing toward her, looking for his chance. His cell rang, and he felt her jump. He listened to it go to voice mail, then silent.

“Keep those legs moving, Savich. I heard your cell ringing; leave it alone. Two more flights, then we’ll get ourselves a nice suntan. It’s actually sunny today, and would you believe it this time of year in San Francisco?”

“Yes, it’s remarkably pleasant.” Savich could hear her breathing. She couldn’t be as fast as he was any longer, no matter how trained up she was.
Only one more floor.
Should he try for her on the stairs?

He took another quick look back. She was walking three steps below him, her gun steady on his back. “What you looking at, Savich? Are you wondering about your little sweetie? I’d have to say there isn’t much hope for her, Joe—Xu—is a remarkable man. Can you believe that, a real live spy for the Chinese right here in San Francisco, California? He never told me what he took, only that he’d had some problems. Everyone has problems, I told him, and I took care of him. I like him, he’s a gentleman and he said thank you to me for it. So live and let live, I say.” She paused, panting a bit, then, “It’s sad, though, even though we’re supposed to hook up after the bomb goes off, I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Did she realize she probably wouldn’t get out of the hospital alive? She sounded philosophical about it. Let her talk, Savich thought, talking would take more breath and a bit of her attention. He said, “You don’t think you’ll see him again?”

She surprised him. “Joe asked me to come to Beijing with him, but I can’t imagine such a thing anyway. I mean, all those people who don’t look like me or talk like me and would probably hate me on sight, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. The thing is, Charlene, I think Joe is in trouble with those people. He’s not going to China, no matter what he told you.”

“You think he’s lying to me? Well, he did say then that he was probably through doing what the Chinese told him to do, so maybe we’ll go to Tuscany—that’s a real pretty place in Italy where he told me he wants to buy a villa, become a local eccentric, he said, because he has lots of money saved.

“You’re slowing down, Agent. Yeah, I can see you’re thinking about jumping me. If you try it, I promise I’ll shoot you in midair. You got that? I’d rather follow the plan I had with Joe. I mean, we’re nearly to the roof, how about it?”

Less than one flight left. They heard a door open down a floor, heard fast footsteps going down.

“Lucky day for that bozo,” Charlene said. She glanced down at her watch again, breathing heavily.

“Here at last. Now we exit. The roof stairs are to the left, down the hall. Shove open the door and don’t move.”

Savich did as she said.

She was right behind him. He felt the gun pressed against his spine. They walked only six feet to another, more discreet door that led to the hospital roof.

They heard a man’s voice.

“Hey, what are you doing here? What’s going on?”

A young man wearing a nice blue suit came striding toward them, waving his hands. “You’re not supposed to be up here. Who are you?”

Savich knew Charlene wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him. He said quickly, “I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI. We need to check out the roof. We’ll be okay by ourselves.”
Please believe me and turn around. Go back to your office.

The man seemed to think about asking to see his ID, but then he shook his head at himself, said, “Hurry it up. No one’s supposed to be up here. Security should have told us. Everyone’s on edge, I guess. Sorry, do what you’ve got to do.” He flapped his hand at them and walked away.

Charlene said, “Good dresser, but he’s got a whine in his voice. I wonder if he’s married. Bet he is and his wife can’t stand him, probably wants to walk out the door and take some loser lover—” She looked blankly at him for a moment. “Now move it. That’s right, you open the roof door.”

Another disconnect,
Savich thought, but it hadn’t lasted long enough for him to make a move. He had to be ready when she did it next. She said, “Another dozen steps to the roof, then there’s a door latched on this side.

“I know what you’re thinking, but don’t do it, not unless you want to live five minutes less. And you really want to live, don’t you? Even if your little FBI wife isn’t breathing anymore, you still want those five extra minutes for yourself.”

He felt the gun shoved hard against his back.

He unlatched the roof door, thought about jumping out and diving out of her sight, but Charlene grabbed his jacket, stayed close to him.

They stepped out onto the graveled roof together and looked out at the sprawl of San Francisco. The wind was sharp, a chill in the air, but the sun was bright overhead.

“Let’s walk over to the edge. See, they’ve got the thigh-high railing. I wonder what good they think that’ll do? I mean, if you want to end it all, you just gotta step right over and then you’re flying. Or in your case, you’re going to get a little encouragement.”

She poked the gun hard in his back. “Walk.”

He walked. Savich knew he had to do something or he would shortly be dead. That couldn’t happen. He had to get to Sherlock. She was alive, she’d managed to beat Xu, or Harry had, Savich knew it to his gut. He felt her, strong and whole. He saw Sean, so tickled he was going to Yosemite, his arms around his neck, giving him a big wet sloppy kiss before pulling away to go to his grandfather to begin his excellent adventure.
El Capitan
were the last words he’d heard Sean say.

He saw her glance at her watch again. The explosion had to be overdue. How long would it be before she realized it?

Sherlock threw open the hallway door on the seventh floor.

“Hey, who are you? You’ve got a gun!”

“FBI! It’s all right,” she called to the young man who, after seeing her SIG, stood stock-still. “Did anyone go up to the roof?”

“Yes, another FBI guy and some sort of tech. The roof door’s right there.”

She ran to the door and pulled it open. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, unlatched the roof door, and forced herself to lift it slowly. She saw Charlene, wearing a blond wig and dressed like a tech standing not a foot from Dillon, her gun aimed at his chest. He was too close to the edge.

He’s alive; thank you, God.

Sherlock climbed out onto the roof, trying not to make any noise. She quietly eased the roof door back down, keeping low. The wind was strong up here, but she could hear Charlene saying, “I can put a bullet in your face and push you over if you’d prefer. Which way do you want it, Agent Savich?”

Dillon said, “Would you like me to tell you who murdered your son, Charlene?”

“Whether it was you or it was Judge Hunt, it doesn’t matter. You’re both murderers, and you should both be dead, and you will be—” She shook her head, and in that moment, Savich saw Sherlock, fell and rolled as Sherlock yelled, “Charlene!”

Charlene whirled around and fired, but Sherlock had already dropped to the graveled roof behind a ventilation shaft. Sherlock fired three fast shots, and one struck Charlene in her side. She yelled and leapt back.

Savich was on her. He kicked her in the stomach, sending her wheeling backward, but she didn’t let go of her gun. She was wheezing and couldn’t catch her breath, but somehow she managed to raise her gun and twist around to fire again at Sherlock.

Sherlock fired. She didn’t miss.

Charlene Cartwright fell onto her back, breath huffing out of her mouth, blood splattering from her chest, spewing out around her.

Savich came down on his knees over her. “Judge Hunt didn’t kill Sonny. Neither did I.”

Charlene stared up at him. “Is Joe dead?”

Sherlock said, “No, he’s not, but I imagine he’ll end up on death row where he belongs. He’s not the man you think he is, Charlene.”

“He should have been my son,” Charlene said, and she stopped breathing.

Savich said slowly, “When they do the autopsy, I’m thinking they’ll find a brain tumor. She wasn’t right, Sherlock.” He rose, gave her a hand, and pulled her up hard against him. “I knew you were okay, I knew I would have known it if you weren’t. Harry’s all right?”

“Yes.” She began feeling his chest, his arms, dropped to her knees and felt his legs, saying, “I had to get to you. The nurse on Ramsey’s floor said you and another guy had gone into the stairwell. I came up as fast as I could.”

“I’m all right. Thank you for coming in time.” He pulled her to her feet.

Sherlock lightly laid her palm against his cheek and looked at his beloved face. “You would have saved yourself.”

Would he? He didn’t know. Savich held her for a very long time until the cold wind chilled them.

EPILOGUE

The following Wednesday night

Davies Hall

San Francisco

Molly looked out over the packed hall of beautifully dressed people, the orchestra in their formal black and white, and the conductor, the tall and aristocratic Giovanni Rossini, a charming rooster tail of silver hair rising straight up off his head, lustrous as a new coin under the glittering lights. She watched him raise his baton and listened to the opening chords of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4 fill the vast hall. She couldn’t take her eyes off the shining nine-foot ebony Steinway on stage, waiting there for Emma.

She had wanted to be backstage with her daughter, but Emma had clasped her hands between hers and said, “You know it makes me nervous when you’re here, Mama. I know you don’t understand that, but it’s true. Please, you need to be with Dad tonight. He’s really tense, and I know his chest hurts. It’s the Christmas season, Mama, Dad is here, and everything is wonderful.” And Emma had hugged her tight and smiled up at her.

My incredible daughter,
Molly thought. She knew at that moment she needn’t be worried for Emma. Her piano teacher, Mrs. Mayhew, would be there in any case to keep her calm and grounded. She kissed her daughter, held her small face a moment between her palms, kissed her again and made her way back up to the box to the right of the stage with its perfect view. She knew she had to suffer through a Dvorák and a Mahler before Emma played, and dug her fingernails into her palm. At least she didn’t have to worry about the twins, who were at the Sherlocks’ house, stuffing themselves with kettle corn and hot chocolate. As for Ramsey, he looked stoic, but she knew his stomach was roiling with nerves, and she could see the low hum of pain he still felt on his face. He looked thin, she thought, but still a sex god, she’d told him when she’d stood back and looked at him in his formal tux. Both Savich and Harry had helped him dress, a slow, laborious process, with Molly standing in the corner of the bedroom watching, trying not to show how terrified it made her that he was still hurting.

She squeezed his hand. He grinned at her, whispered, “Emma will be superb, you know it.” Molly knew he was saying that as much for himself as for her. She forced out a smile and for a moment leaned her face against his shoulder.

The orchestra finished the Tchaikovsky, and Rossini turned to bow and accept applause. Molly turned to smile at Dillon, who had Sean on his lap, and Sherlock and Eve and Harry sitting next to him, and they nodded back at her. She whispered to Ramsey, “We’ve never had such perfect seats in the hall. It was nice of the Vincents to lend us their box so all six of us could sit together.”

Ramsey nodded, knowing the Vincents were in Paris, where they would most like to be, despite the cold December nights. He remembered squeezing into Notre Dame with them one Christmas Eve years ago along with thousands of other people, and then walking along the Seine to the Pont Neuf, where they’d stopped to buy a bag of chestnuts roasting on an open grill. Perhaps his family could do that together next year.

Rossini’s baton came down, and Dvorák’s incredible Symphony No. 9, “From the New World,” filled the hall. Ramsey settled himself in to listen. He would have a next year now, to go to Paris if he wished. He was so grateful to be alive, here in Davies Hall ready to hear Emma play that he wanted to shout with it.

Molly was fidgeting. Ramsey whispered, “Stop worrying. Emma’s a pro, she’ll be great.”

Molly drew in a deep breath. “You’re here, that’s all that’s really important to Emma, and to me.”

The orchestra moved on to play Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 in C Sharp Minor, and it seemed to go on forever. Molly would have kicked poor Mahler if he’d been there. Why was he so long-winded? Then it was over, finally. When the applause died down, Rossini turned his charismatic smile on the audience. He said in his charming Italian accent, “We are proud to present Miss Emma Hunt. She will play George Gershwin’s
Rhapsody in Blue.
We are also proud and very pleased to see her father, Judge Ramsey Hunt, with us tonight. I was told he said he’d be helicoptered in if need be.” Rossini bowed toward their box bringing every eye in the audience to them.

“Miss Emma Hunt.” Giovanni Rossini held his hand out to welcome Emma as she walked toward him in her Christmas-red velvet dress, her beautiful glossy dark hair held back by two gold clips, like shiny silk beneath the lights. She wore black ballet flats on her small feet. Her only jewelry was the locket Ramsey had given her for her last birthday, a photo of her and her mother on one side, Ramsey and the twins on the other.

Molly could never adequately describe her feelings when her daughter walked onto a stage. Usually it was a strange mixture of so much pride she could burst with it, and such throat-clogging terror she thought her face would turn blue. And such elation, she thought, that she knew she could leap off the box railing and fly, and finally, utter blank-brained amazement that she’d given birth to this incredible being. She watched Emma take Rossini’s hand and smile up at him, then turn to walk to the Steinway grand piano, shoulders straight, lightly running her fingers over its glossy black finish. She sat down in front of the keyboard, moved the bench an inch to the left. Before Emma lowered her hands to the piano, she looked directly at their box and smiled.

She began to play
Rhapsody in Blue,
Gershwin’s magical, exuberant, full-bodied, passionate masterpiece. No one who heard it would think an eleven-year-old girl was playing. Slowly, drawn inexorably into the music, Molly began to breathe again and she wondered if maybe she couldn’t fly after all. She knew every chord and every run by heart, she’d heard Emma play it so many times. When Emma struck the final chord, she sat quietly for a moment, something Mrs. Mayhew had taught her to bring her back and calm her racing heart, before she eased off the piano bench and turned to face the audience. She bowed.

Molly leapt to her feet, clapping madly, hearing the audience’s huge applause as they rose in a standing ovation. If Ramsey had been able to, he would have jumped to his feet along with his beaming wife, and Savich, with a wildly clapping Sean in his arms, Sherlock, and Harry and Eve, but he knew he’d probably tip right out of the box and make a mess of it on the people below.

Emma bowed again as the applause continued, with shouts of “Encore!” She seated herself again at the Steinway. She played variations on a medley of Christmas carols she herself had written, from “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” to “Silver Bells,” which lifted every spirit in the house. When she stood to bow again, the audience rose once more to applaud. Rossini presented her with a deep bow and red roses. Emma looked directly at her father, held out the roses to him, and gave him a bow.

As if choreographed, everyone in the audience turned to look up at his box. The applause, if possible, grew even louder.

When, at last, the audience settled into their seats, there was a single stark instant of complete silence. Sean’s little boy voice rang out, loud and clear, from the last seat in the mezzanine to the dressing rooms behind the stage, “Emma, you’ve got to marry me!”