Catherine Coulter: Backfire

Savich asked, “Any progress on the missing federal prosecutor yet? Mickey O’Rourke?”

The answer was no.

When Savich ended the call, Sherlock said, “A federal prosecutor missing-it sounds like a spy novel. I’m very grateful my father wasn’t the one judging the Cahill case.”

“Mama, you weren’t paying attention. I got you!”

Savich smiled, listening to Sherlock wail. “Oh, dear, Sean, how am I going to save myself this time? Atoc’s shoved me in a pit of purple-headed Amazonian hippo snakes. Ah, here’s what I’ll do,” and Sherlock walloped one of the writhing hippo snakes with a canoe paddle. Since she was the master Incan mathematician, Professor Pahuac, and rotten to the bone, she knew her end probably wouldn’t be a good one.

San Francisco

Friday, early afternoon

Lieutenant Vincent Delion of the SFPD, and a longtime friend, met them at airport baggage claim. He told them he’d talked Cheney into letting him come get them. He told them the San Francisco Feds didn’t know squat yet, and neither did the SFPD, and he told them about the task force Police Commissioner Montoya announced she’d like to form, just a couple of hours ago-with the FBI’s assistance, of course. He tossed Savich a copy of the Chronicle . “Read this.” Savich and Sherlock looked at the big block headline: JUDGE DREDD SHOT.

Delion soon pulled his Crown Vic into the heavy 101 traffic north to the city. “At least Ramsey is holding on. None of us wanted a murder case, particularly not his. I can’t imagine what would happen to Emma, Molly, and the twins if he died.” There was a punch of hard silence, then, “No, they won’t lose him, they can’t.”

Delion shook his head, lightly stroked big fingers over his pride and joy. He smiled, remembering Sean Savich telling him in grave confidence at the baggage carousel, “I think your mustache is shinier than Hercule Poirot’s.”

Delion told Sean he was a fine judge of mustachios and that his was particularly shiny this morning in honor of meeting the bigwigs from Washington, D.C., their kiddo included.

Delion plowed his hand through his hair. “I’m hoping Ramsey will be ready to speak to us soon at the hospital.”

Sherlock said, “How’s Molly?”

“She’s trying to show she’s solid for the kids’ sake.” He paused for a moment, then added, “After what happened to Emma years ago, they all try to watch out for each other.”

“Is Uncle Ramsey all right, Mama?”

They’d told Sean they were coming to San Francisco because Ramsey had been hurt, nothing more. “He will be all right, Sean. He’s injured, but he’s going to start getting better now.” Please, God, please, God.

“Is Emma okay?”

“She’s fine, Sean. She’s watching Cal and Gage.”

“No wonder,” her five-year-old said. “Cal and Gage are babies. They need all the watching they can get. I’ll help her.”

Sherlock said to Delion, “When we flew out here for Memorial Day weekend six months ago, Sean spent three hours with Emma and the boys, and announced to us he was going to marry Emma and help her teach Cal and Gage about life. I asked him about Marty Perry, his girlfriend next door, and the love of his life. I also asked him about Bowie Richards’s daughter, Georgie, also the love of his life, up in Connecticut. Sean just smiled, didn’t you, kiddo?”

Delion said to Sean, “I agree with you, Sean, Emma’s a champ. As for Marty and Georgie, they sound pretty cool, too. Hey, kid, the older you get the more you look like your old man.”

Sean considered that. “Mama says I’m more handsome than Papa, since I have her smile. She says that makes all the difference.”

Delion laughed.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” Savich said, and Sherlock saw Sean repeating his father’s words to himself. She rolled her eyes. She leaned over and ruffled Sean’s thick black hair.

Sean said, sounding a bit worried, “I hope Emma didn’t forget she’s engaged to me.”

“Not a chance,” Savich said. “Do you think your mama could have ever forgotten she was engaged to me?”

“Not a chance,” Sean said.

When they passed by Candlestick Park, Sean said, “That’s where Dwight Clark made The Catch way back in the old days, right, Papa?”

Savich grinned. “It sure is.”

Sherlock said to Delion, “Can you believe he remembers that?”

Delion said, “Yeah, well, his hard drive works better because it isn’t as full as ours.”

All the adults realized any more discussion about Ramsey’s shooting had to wait. Delion was talking about the upcoming 49ers-Seahawks game when Sean said, “Marty asked me when I was going to have a sister because she’s going to have a new brother in March.”

Now, that was a conversation starter.

San Francisco General Hospital

Surgical ICU

Friday afternoon

Savich didn’t want to count all the lines that tethered Ramsey Hunt to life. There were IV lines in his neck, and an oxygen mask on his face. Savich recognized a kind of suction device connected to the end of the tube coming from Ramsey’s chest, a Pleurovac, they called it. Ramsey lay on his back, still and pale, his immense life force badly faded. At least it wasn’t extinguished. A light sheet was pulled to his chest, not quite covering his wide white surgical bandages. He was breathing lightly and steadily, a relief, but his eyelids looked bruised, perhaps from when he’d fallen. Savich hated it.

The SFPD guard outside the cubicle had given them the stink eye before Lieutenant Trolley introduced them to Officer Jay Mancusso of the SFPD. Since only two visitors could go into the small cubicle at a time, Savich went in first to stand beside Molly. She didn’t look away from Ramsey, merely took Savich’s hand in hers and squeezed hard. “Thank you for coming so quickly. The Valium Cheney suggested the doctor give me-it’s magic stuff. It’s helped unparalyze my brain. I’m sorry I lost it when I called you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Savich said. “Ramsey’s breathing is solid and easy, Molly; that’s a good sign.”

Ramsey had told him once that Molly’s hair was as vibrant a red as a sunset off the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, and Ramsey was right. You’d think Ramsey was describing Sherlock’s hair, but it wasn’t the same color at all.

She turned into him, and he closed his arms around her. She felt fragile. It was odd, he thought, but Molly’s hair didn’t feel the same as Sherlock’s hair, and didn’t smell like her hair, either-it was jasmine he was smelling, jasmine mixed with lemon, not the faint rose scent of Sherlock’s. “He’ll make it, Molly,” he said against her hair. “He’ll make it. He’s strong and determined, and he wants to stay here with us.”

She pulled back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I think he will, too. But I’m so scared, Dillon. What if-”

“No what-ifs. Has he been awake at all?”

“In and out, mumbling words I can’t understand for the most part, then saying Emma’s name over and over. I think he’s remembering back to the time he found her unconscious in the forest near his cabin.”

“Has Cheney come in yet?”

“Yes, we spoke briefly. I told him what I could, which wasn’t much of anything at all, and he said he’d see me later today after Ramsey was awake and the doctors were satisfied he was going to be okay. I think he wanted to give me more time to consider who and why, but I can’t think of a single person who would want to kill him. Cheney told me about the Cahills and how Ramsey had postponed the trial and how that federal prosecutor was missing. Ramsey hadn’t said a word to me, but in all honesty, there wasn’t time.” She walked away from him, then turned, her hands fisted at her sides. “No, there was time, but damn him, he’s always trying to protect me. He knew something hinky was going on, and he kept it to himself. I will have to seriously consider hurting him for that.”