Catherine Coulter - Backfire

Savich nodded. “My name’s Savich. Give me an alcohol pad and I’ll wipe the blood away.”

Nathan Everett wanted to say No, you shouldn’t touch her, but he saw the big man with only one shirt sleeve, his black leather jacket on the floor beside him, was desperately trying to keep control. “Sure, here you go. But stay away from the wound; we don’t want it to start bleeding again.”

He watched Savich lift up her hair and wash it with sterile dressings Nathan had soaked in saline from a plastic bottle. He was gentle, his touch light. After a half-dozen dressings, he got most of the blood cleared from her hair.

Nathan handed him another dressing. “You need to wash your face as well, sir.”

Savich did as he said. So much blood, he thought, as he wiped his face.

Thank goodness, Nathan thought; the wound wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. It was a deep gouge along the side of her head. But was her skull fractured? Her brain injured? Was she still bleeding inside her skull from a lacerated artery? Nathan didn’t know, but he did know the bullet had passed only a few millimeters away from exploding her head open. Nathan swallowed. The important thing now was that she wake up soon. The sooner she woke up, the better the chance she was still the person she was. He said aloud what he was hoping for. “It isn’t fatal, but she needs to wake up. Are you an FBI agent?”

“Yes, I’m Agent Savich, Dillon Savich.”

“You work with her? Is she an agent, too?”

“Yes, she’s an agent. I live with her as well. She’s my wife.”

Nathan nearly fell over backward when he said that.

“You’re kidding.”

Savich only shook his head. He listened to the ambulance siren blare loud and insistent as traffic pulled over in front of them. Odd, but he hadn’t heard the sirens before now. He wiped a streak of blood off her face. She was pale, nearly as white as Sean’s two percent milk. It looked obscene. It nearly broke him.

Her eyes opened. She looked dazed, like a prizefighter who’d gone too many rounds.

Savich leaned in close, his hand squeezing hers. “Sherlock?”

She blinked, licked her lips. “Why are you up there, Dillon? Or why am I down here? What happened?”

“You don’t remember? It doesn’t matter. You were shot, but you’ll be fine.”

She looked confused, as if she hadn’t understood what he’d said. “Dillon, my head really hurts.”

“I know, but we’re nearly to the hospital now. You had a small accident-nothing, really-only a small hit.”

“A small hit?”

Nathan said, “That’s right. Try to stay awake. That’s right, can you focus on my face?”

“Her name’s Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, what color are my eyes?”

She didn’t say anything, simply closed her eyes again.

Nathan saw Savich’s face go blank and said quickly, “She woke up, she was herself, and that’s an excellent sign. Six more minutes and we’ll be there. She’s not going to die, Agent Savich.”

For the first time, Savich looked and actually registered the face of the man beside Sherlock. He was in his early forties, on the heavy side, with pockmarked skin, deep brown eyes, and a reassuring smile, but most important, as he’d spoken, Savich hadn’t seen any lurking doubt in his eyes.

Nathan cleared his throat. “Who shot her?”

“I don’t know,” Savich said. “I don’t know much of anything except there was a bomb in the Fairmont and she caught the man who blew it up and someone else shot her.”

Nathan said, “Was the man a terrorist?”

A terrorist? “No,” Savich said. “He’s a very careful, very well-prepared man who deserves to be in shackles.” He added, never looking away from Sherlock’s face, “I hope no one died in that hotel.”

Sherlock jerked, took a hitching breath.

Savich felt her hand tighten briefly around his fingers before she let go again. He clasped her hand tighter, and his own breath hitched. He was terrified.

He felt Nathan’s hand on his shoulder. “I do, too, Agent. We’re here, sir.”

San Francisco General Hospital

Tuesday afternoon

Fifteen minutes later, half a dozen FBI agents rushed into the emergency room, thankfully not at all crowded, Cheney at their head. Savich was standing by the registration desk, speaking quietly to a nurse.

Cheney forced the words out: “Eve said it’s a head wound. How is she?”

Savich looked at Harry, Eve, and Griffin, with four other agents whose names he didn’t know crowding in behind them, some of their faces and clothes blackened with soot. One of them had blood smeared on his shirt. His or someone he’d pulled out of the hotel?

Virginia Trolley and Vincent Delion came running in behind them.

Savich said, “She’s awake. I’m not with her because they’re doing a neurological exam and the doctor said there wasn’t room and since I couldn’t add anything useful, I needed to be out here.” He nodded to the nurse. “Nurse Blankenship is going back and forth, telling me exactly what they’re doing and why.”

“How bad is it?” Virginia Trolley came up to put her hand on his shoulder.

Savich said, “The bullet gouged a trench along the left side of her head, above her left ear.” He touched his fingers to his own head to show them. “If it had been a couple of millimeters to the right, she’d be dead.” Savich felt his throat close. He swallowed. He stood as stiff as a fence post, trying to get himself together. “She was a little groggy when I left her, but she seemed okay. They were shaving off a square of her hair so they could put stitches in.” Odd, but saying those words nearly broke him. He said nothing more. He knew he needed to stop to keep control.

Nurse Blankenship looked from Savich to the group, and said to all of them, “As I told Agent Savich, the fact that they’re ready to stitch her scalp so soon is great news. They’re not taking her to CT right away, and that means they’re not worried about a skull fracture and her neurological exam must be normal, or nearly so.”

“Is there something wrong with her exam?” Savich asked.

Nurse Blankenship hastened to say, “No, sorry-I only meant she’s had a concussion, that’s all. I tell you what, I’ll go back in and check on them again, so you’ll know what to expect, okay?”

She smiled at them all, walked quickly down the hall into Sherlock’s cubicle, and returned in under a minute. “They said she’d be going for a CT scan in a few minutes, just to be sure. The doctors say the odds are good the scan will be normal and that she’ll be staying for only a day or two, that she’ll make a complete recovery with only a small scar for a souvenir.

“Now, if all of you would repeat to Agent Savich that his wife should be up within the week, I would appreciate it.” She patted Savich’s arm and excused herself.

There was a collective sigh of relief. Harry studied Savich’s face, saw he’d finally accepted Sherlock wasn’t going to die. Savich turned toward them, focused again. “What information do you have? Do you know who shot her? Do you know what happened to Xu?”

Harry said, “A couple of Virginia’s officers who were positioned two blocks up on California ran into a young guy waving his fists and yelling after a white Infiniti that was fishtailing down the street. Xu had jerked open the guy’s car door, clouted him in the head, and shoved him into the road. We’ve got an APB out on the car and the license plate number.