Catherine Coulter - Backfire

Sherlock said, “No one wins in a blame game, Marshal Maynard. Not even the FBI contingent.”

Nurse Camp looked in from the doorway. “Dr. Elba is tied up and asked me to speak to you. Cindy Cahill is out of surgery. Dr. Elba thinks she has an even chance, though she’s still oozing blood because of a clotting problem she’s developed from all the bleeding. We moved her to recovery. You won’t be able to speak to her until morning, all right?”

Harry asked, “Could you please find out about a new patient for us, a Mrs. Lin Mei, probably having a psychiatric evaluation?”

Nurse Camp said, “Not in my bailiwick, Agent. The people at the reception desk can help you find her.”

Eve thanked her and watched Savich dial Bill Hammond at the CIA. They could hear a man’s voice loud and clear: “Are you nuts, Savich? It’s four in the damned morning!”

Harry and Eve looked at each other, knew they didn’t want to hear this conversation, and left the waiting room. They took the elevator to the fourth floor to check on Ramsey before they left the hospital. It wasn’t the same elevator. That one still had crime tape plastered over the doors on every floor. Eve didn’t think she’d ever want to ride that particular elevator again in her life.

Judge Sherlock’s home

Pacific Heights

Tuesday morning

Judge Corman Sherlock said to his son-in-law the next morning across the breakfast table, “You’re frustrated, Dillon, and no wonder, after last night. How about I give you my membership card for the Pacific Heights Club over on Union Street and you get a good workout? I can call Mr. Eddie, he’s usually there, and he’s been looking forward to mixing it up with you. He outweighs you by a good twenty pounds, all of it muscle. Even though he’s older than you, he’s one tough bald bugger.”

Savich hated to say no; he couldn’t think of anything he needed more than a sweaty hard workout. He shook his head. “I’ve got to take a rain check with Mr. Eddie. Lacey and I have to get over to the hospital as soon as we can. Cindy Cahill’s awake, more or less, and this is our first chance to talk to her.”

Five minutes later, after Sean had demolished a bowl of Cheerios and started to rag on his grandmother about the visit to the zoo she’d promised him, even though the zoo wasn’t open yet, Sherlock started up their rental car for the ride across town to San Francisco General Hospital.

Savich booted up MAX as they drove toward Market Street. “Cheney is already working on getting a sketch of Xu from Lin Mei. He said he’d have it out to Hammersmith about now, but it doesn’t look like he’s posted it yet. I wonder how Cindy will react to it.”

“I only hope she’ll be able to talk to us,” Sherlock said. “Cheney said she wasn’t doing well.”

“If she can, I know in my gut that now she’ll tell us everything she knows about Xu, since he tried to have her killed.”

He sat back for a moment, closed his eyes. “Until Xu murdered Milo Siles, and his game plan became clear, it was a nightmare trying to predict him. Sometimes he was controlled and logical, sometimes not. What he pulled off last night was an act of desperation, beyond his control. He was lucky it worked out as well as it did.”

Sherlock turned onto 101 South. “Ripping up an elevator ceiling, throwing down a smoke bomb, and firing down on a bunch of marshals and Ramsey sure wasn’t a logical, controlled act. I still can’t figure that one out.”

“I can’t, either. It’s so over-the-top and out of character for him. Why was he so desperate to kill Ramsey in such a crazy way? Bottom line, he’s a spy, probably has been for quite a while, and a spy’s first watchword, it would seem to me, is discretion. He buried Mickey O’Rourke in a spot no one would ever find, just bad luck for him that those kids were there.

“But then he murdered Milo Siles and Pixie McCray in broad daylight when he could easily have been spotted. He’s all over the place.”

Sherlock said, “I think with Milo it boiled down to eliminating anyone who could hurt him as fast as possible so he can get out of Dodge. It was desperation, like you said. I think if he’d thought he had a choice, he’d have waited until he could get Milo alone, bury him deep, like he did Mickey O’Rourke. I’ll tell you, Dillon, it gives me a headache.”

Savich grinned at her. “I’m hoping Xu is deluded enough or desperate enough to make a try to kill Cindy in the ICU. I doubled her guard. She’s as well covered as Ramsey. If Xu shows up, we’ll get him, no doubt in my mind.”

“You know he’s got to try. The last thing he wants is for her to talk to us, and he’s got to know she would talk, since he tried to have her killed.”

“Ah, here comes the sketch.”

Sherlock looked over at MAX’s screen at the man’s face. “Not very distinctive, is he? Not a single Asian facial characteristic except maybe for the thick black hair. Green eyes, and a thin, longish face. What age would you say, about thirty-five?”

Savich said, “Yeah, that’s about right.” He stared at the man and found himself wondering how Xu had hooked up with the Chinese government, and why he’d become a traitor to his country of birth. Does he feel more Chinese than American? Or is it all about money? Savich knew neither was the whole of it. Fact was, though, Xu was a psychopath who happened to be half Chinese and had found a perfect fit getting paid to do what he took pleasure in.

San Francisco General Hospital

Tuesday morning

They found Cindy Cahill in the surgical ICU only one cubicle away from where Ramsey had fought for his life, shot by the same man who’d ordered Cindy killed. Officer Colley looked them over from beside Cindy’s cubicle and smiled at them. He’d also done a guard shift when Ramsey had been here.

“Good to see you, Agent Savich, Agent Sherlock. Agent Christoff and Deputy Barbieri have been waiting inside for you for a couple of minutes. There’ve been lots of doctors and nurses in and out. I think she’s in trouble.” He held up his cell phone to show them the sketch of Xu. “Just got it.” He nodded to Sherlock. “No sign of him. You can bet they’ll strip-search any guy who looks like him before he leaves the lobby, ball cap or not.”

Cindy looked white as death, her eyes closed, her eyelids bruised, her hair matted down. There was a plastic oxygen mask over her mouth, and when she breathed, it was with effort, as if it was hard work for her. The single sheet pulled over her was stained pink where it touched her chest, and looked to be draped over a maze of gurgling tubes, packings, and pressure dressings, some of them stained pink as well. One of her IVs held a bag of blood that was slowly dripping into her arm. Without makeup, without a show of her usual attitude and the force of her personality, she looked young and vulnerable, and gravely ill.

Savich nodded to Eve and Harry. “Has she been asleep since you got here?”

Eve shook her head. “She’s awake, but she hurts and she’s dopey from all the drugs they’re pumping into her. The doctor told me he didn’t know whether she’d make any sense or not.”

Sherlock said, “All we can do is try.”

“Ah, there’s an eye opening.” Eve leaned over her. “Good morning, Cindy. You want to blink at me so I know you’re there?”