Catherine Coulter - Backfire

Insanely, Eve wanted to laugh.

When they arrived at the Federal Building, Cheney said, “I’m going to pick up the chaplain in my own car and drive over to see Mrs. O’Rourke. As for the rest of you, it’s Sunday. Take some time off, try to let go of all this. We need all your brains ready tomorrow morning. We can bank on hearing from forensics and the medical examiner first thing.” He paused for a moment. “Wish me luck.”

They did, all of them grateful they weren’t walking in his shoes today.

Eve said her good-byes and went walking in the rain. She realized her mistake a couple blocks later when every step made her back hurt. She saw a taxi, and, miracle of miracles, it stopped for her. She directed the Ukrainian driver to Saint Francis Church on Larkin, a fixture in her Russian Hill neighborhood for nearly a hundred years. The rain was coming down heavier when she opened the side door and slipped inside. It was warm and dim and ancient. She breathed in the soft air scented with incense. She always felt safe here. She sat awhile, absorbing the quiet and gazing at the many symbols of hope that surrounded her, hope she knew was embedded in the very walls. She eased forward on the pew and sent a prayer of gratitude that Eleanor and Rufino were alive. She prayed to find this man who’d wantonly killed Mickey O’Rourke, who’d tried to kill Ramsey. She didn’t pray that she would kill him; she didn’t think she should push God on things like that. And she prayed for Mickey O’Rourke’s soul.

When she walked back to the vestibule, she saw Father Gautier standing by the big closed double doors, arms crossed over his chest, an umbrella open at his feet to dry. He was St. Francis’s longtime pastor, always soft-spoken and patient. Father Gautier gave her a long look. “I hope you found what you needed, Eve. I noticed you weren’t in church today. Is something troubling you?”

She told him that Mickey O’Rourke, whom Father Gautier had known as his parishioner far longer than she had, was dead, a violent death. She gave him no details.

He took her hand as he closed his eyes a moment. He whispered, “I am so very sorry, for his family, for all of us. Requiem in pace. ”

They stood quietly for a moment, then Father Gautier said, “You’re wet,” and his voice held a touch of humor, bless him.

Eve said, “Not so much now. It’s so very warm inside. I think I’d like to stay that way.”

When Father Gautier left her, she pulled out her cell. “Harry, sorry to call when you’re just getting home. Would you come get me at Saint Francis Church on Larkin? It’s not too late, and I could use the company. I can make us something to eat, if you like.”

“If you’re up to it, so am I,” he said.

Judge Sherlock’s home

Mulberry Street, Pacific Heights

San Francisco

Sunday evening

Sean was lying boneless against Savich’s shoulder, Savich stroking his back. He’d fallen asleep between his grandparents in front of the TV watching Sunday Night Football.

He took Sean to the second guest room next to his and Sherlock’s bedroom, gently eased him down on his back on the twin bed, the crib long stored away in the basement. He pulled the dinosaur sheet and two blankets over him, since Sean liked to be warm when he slept. He kissed him, breathed in his kid smell, and straightened. He felt the light touch of Sherlock’s hand on his arm.

“He’s so beautiful, so perfect, and we made him,” she whispered. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Savich turned and hugged her. He said against her ear, “I was thinking that right now it’d be good to be as innocent as Sean.” He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her hair. “I can’t get Mickey O’Rourke’s face out of my mind, or that farm shack where he was beaten and murdered.” He hugged her more tightly. “Life is so fragile. You’re here, then you’re not, and it’s final, no going back, no changing anything at all.”

She held him, stroking her hands up and down his back and said against his cheek, “Dillon, I’ve been thinking about what Cheney said-that a woman wouldn’t have killed Mickey O’Rourke like that. I don’t see it, either. Not only was the killing savage, she would have had to carry O’Rourke back to the car, a good distance from the shack, and then she would have had to carry him an even longer distance to bury him. Remember, Ellie and Rufino said after he left O’Rourke’s grave, they heard the car start up from a good ways away? Sue is slightly built. Even with superior upper-body strength, I don’t see how she could have managed. O’Rourke was a big guy-taller than you. What does it mean?

Savich said, “It means our Sue isn’t a woman.”

Hyde Street, Russian Hill

San Francisco

Sunday night

Eve’s back hurt so badly when they arrived at her condo she didn’t think she could walk a step until Harry’s hand cupped her elbow. “Harry’s hands are here to minister to you so you have a chance at some sleep tonight. First, though, you need a long, hot shower. I don’t want you getting sick.”

“I can make you some coffee.”

“I’ll make it while you shower. After you’re dry and warmed up, I’ll see to your back. I’ll call Feng Nian Palace and get us some Chinese delivered. We can stretch out in front of the TV, watch what’s left of the football game, and munch on egg rolls.”

After her shower, Eve walked into the living room to see the Patriots’ QB Tom Brady complete a pass to Wes Welker and gave a small cheer. “I think Wes Welker would make a great marshal,” she said. “He’s strong and fast, and you can tell that brain of his is high-voltage.” She grinned down at Harry as she tossed him the tube of muscle cream. She carefully sat beside him on the sofa, eased her robe off her shoulders, and leaned forward. Her hair was loose down her back. He looked at her hair for a moment, then shoved it over her shoulder and began smoothing the cream over her back. He stroked her until the final whistle blew. She really didn’t want him to stop, but finally she said, “Your hands will cramp up. I’m fine now, thank you. I can’t believe how stiff I was. Goodness, it’s almost nine o’clock. Are you hungry yet?”

“Dinner should be here any minute. You feel okay?”

“Better,” she said, “much better.” She realized her robe was still down. She quickly shrugged it back up, closed it, and tied the belt. She turned to face him, lightly laid her hand on his arm. “You’re very kind, Harry, thank you.”

Harry was silent for only a moment, then said, “Sherlock told me about Mrs. Howell’s homemade pizza for her son, Boozer, how delicious it was at eleven o’clock this morning. I was thinking we eat too much pizza-so we’re having Szechuan. That okay with you?”

“It’s great. Do you know I can’t imagine an amateur trying to find a vein in my arm and poking that needle in a dozen times? It’s too bad the guy had his face and head covered up.”

Harry said, “Yeah, but we were real lucky today-if those kids hadn’t seen him, we’d still be looking for Mickey O’Rourke.”

“Yes, forever. Hey, what do you want with your fried rice? A beer?”

Harry asked for water. He watched her walk to her kitchen. She looked looser, walked more easily. He said, “I called Cheney while you were in the shower. He said Mrs. O’Rourke was brave, that was the word he used. I guess he was expecting her to fall apart, but she didn’t. She told him she wanted to be the one to tell her daughters. The chaplain stayed, but Cheney’s home now.”