Catherine Coulter - Backfire

“Father Sonny was murdered when she’d been in prison for about five years, so she had ample time to figure out who to blame and how to carry out her revenge.”

Sherlock said, “Why did she target you? Of course I remember most everything about the case, but you were hardly involved.”

“That’s why I didn’t make the connection sooner. When I found her, I realized that she saw me as making it all possible because of the facial-recognition program I modified from my friend at Scotland Yard. Remember we didn’t believe the sketch we inputted into the program would pay off? But it did, the program spit Father Sonny out right away.”

Sherlock said, “So Charlene read about the facial-recognition program, saw your name and your connection to Ramsey, and decided you were the one who fingered her son, that without you, he wouldn’t have been caught, which is totally wrong. Father Sonny tried to take Emma again in Monterey. In the end, that’s what brought him down.”

“Yeah, but we’re talking a very angry woman here.”

“Angry but irrational,” Sherlock said. “She used you as her focus, the hub of the wheel. She was going to punish you by killing those who mattered to you, as you had hurt her by supposedly killing her son.”

“Looks like. I guess there was no way she could know Father Sonny kidnapped the wrong little girl when he took Emma since he was ordered killed by Emma’s grandfather for it. She must have believed Ramsey killed him, that I and everyone else protected him, covered it up, and that’s why he was number one on her hit list.”

Sherlock recited, “ For what you did you deserve this. I wonder how many lines she played around with before she came upon this one. It sounds highfalutin, doesn’t it? Like God is going to smite you and you deserve it. Why isn’t her name Dickerson?”

“It was a common-law marriage, and she kept her maiden name-Cartwright. She served her ten years in Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women in Saint Gabriel, outside of Baton Rouge, until four months ago when she was paroled, completely rehabilitated, and, citing her exemplary behavior, willing to do whatever was asked of her, according to the warden himself. She was, naturally, a clerk in the prison library, spent many hours in there ‘studying,’ according to the parole board records.”

Sherlock said, “And I was second on her list after Ramsey? To hurt you?”

Savich nodded. “She must have decided to put Ramsey on hold, since she realized there was no way she could get to him again in the hospital, not after the elevator debacle.”

He shook his head. “I can’t get over her preparation for that attempt. She even took Boozer’s blood, remember, because she wanted us to think she was wounded, and that she was a man. She wanted to play with us.”

“And Boozer described a man as well.”

“Well, we thought Xu was a woman for a very long time, what with that Sue name mix-up. Turns out we were wrong on both counts.”

Sherlock said, “That stunt in the elevator. Amazing, what she did.”

“She failed, thanks to Eve and Kevlar.”

Sherlock said, “Dillon, how do you know it was Charlene, though? I mean, for sure?”

“There were samples of her handwriting in the trial record. They matched the notes she sent us. And she’s wanted in Louisiana again, for cutting out on her parole officer two months ago.”

Sherlock said, “She must have been following the FBI van, no other explanation for why she was there and ready to shoot just when I was out and visible at the Fairmont.”

“She would have had no idea you’d jump out of the van and go after Xu. That part of it was lucky for her.”

“Lucky for both of them,” Sherlock said. “And isn’t that a happy thought?” If her aim had been a hair better, I’d be dead. Sherlock’s hand was a fist on his chest. He felt her fingers tangle in his chest hair. He pressed lightly, flattening her palm.

Savich said, “I’ve got her photo. It will make a huge difference knowing who we’re looking for. You know, Charlene doesn’t look like a killer, not really. I saw two photos, one before her trial and one taken two years ago. She didn’t look beaten down anymore, like a battered wife. She looked fierce, the set of her head and shoulders was proud, like she was on a mission for justice, like some old Joan of Arc.”

Sherlock pushed off the covers. “Let me see.”

“No, you stay put. I’ll bring MAX in here to show you.” He felt her hand moving over his chest. He leaned down, kissed her.

“No, don’t bring in MAX just yet,” she said against his jaw. She kissed his throat. “Not yet.”

San Francisco General Hospital

Judge Hunt’s room

Thanksgiving

Nurse Natalie Chase was divorced. Even though her ex was a real loser, she’d loved his name, and since she didn’t have any kids by him, she’d kept it. Thank heaven his gene pool wouldn’t continue through her. She had no close family, only a couple of cousins who lived in Boston, so she always volunteered for holiday shifts. She liked holidays; there was usually something special going on, and she didn’t have to be alone. This year she’d been invited to a Thanksgiving feast like no other she’d seen in a patient’s room, with Judge Hunt and his crew. They were breaking more visiting rules than she cared to think about, but nobody was worried about it, not since it was Judge Dredd and it was Thanksgiving.

Sure, she had to keep an eye on all her other patients, but most of them were with family, chowing down on turkey and dressing if they could. Even her elderly patient with Alzheimer’s was with his daughter, who was snacking on turkey and stuffing while she kept vigil. No one was alone today.

It baffled and angered Natalie that someone would want to kill Judge Ramsey Hunt. He was genuinely nice, a treat to the eyes, and, like everyone else taking care of him, she was thankful today of all days that Judge Dredd was doing so well. Another three or four days, she thought, and he should be well enough to go home. Home, maybe, but not back to his normal life. Not while there was a killer who might try for him again. She couldn’t imagine living with that, couldn’t imagine what his family was going through, knowing that a madman was still out there, waiting for another chance.

At first the TV news had showed a picture of a man, Joe Keats, who’d escaped from the Fairmont a couple of days ago, as the man who’d shot Judge Hunt. And today they were showing the picture of a woman instead, who was supposed to be the shooter. She looked, Natalie thought, a bit like her own mother.

Would there be another picture tomorrow? The news didn’t seem to have any idea why she tried to murder Judge Hunt and the FBI agent, but she knew that by the end of the day there would be talking heads arguing over every detail on TV and plastering the Internet with so many opinions even the mullahs in Iran would see them. She could already recite the words: “Anyone with any information about the whereabouts of either of these people-”

SFPD Officer Gavin Hendricks waved his hand in front of her face. “You look a million miles away. Another slice of turkey?”

She shook her head at him, smiling. He’d been guarding Judge Hunt for the past three days. He was a tall black man with a pitiful excuse for a goatee, she’d told him, and he’d laughed and said it was his father’s fault. She said, “If I eat any more I might pop a button, and that wouldn’t be cool at all. What if an emergency turns up? What if a patient sees me with my pants button popped open? It wouldn’t inspire much confidence.”