Catherine Coulter - The Edge

"You're not that ripe. I'm not moving until you at least sit down and tell me what's going on."

"Okay, I'll sit," I said, and truth be told, it was a good thing I planned to sit quickly, though not on that bed.

"Oh, all right. If you insist, Sherlock." I smiled down at her. She was a small woman with a head of thick, curly red hair, confined this morning at the back of her neck with a gold clip. She had the whitest skin and the prettiest smile that was warm and sweet unless she was pissed, when she could chew metal if it came right down to it. We'd come into the Bureau at the same time, all of two years ago now.

She managed a surprising amount of my weight, walking lock-step, veering sideways so she could push me down onto a hospital chair. Once I was seated I grinned up at her, remembering the two of us going up the ropes in our final physical exam at the Academy. I hadn't known if she'd be able to do it or not, and I hadn't been about to leave her. I'd hung beside her, encouraging her, calling her names, insulting her at a fine clip until she finally made it all the way up the rope with those skinny arms of hers. Sherlock didn't have a lot of upper-body strength, but she had something a whole lot better-guts and heart. She was more fond of me than I probably deserved.

"You're going to talk to me. The doctors are shaking their heads. They've already called your boss and I'll betcha they'll be here ready to roll you into the floor if you take so much as one step toward that door.

Here's reinforcements. Dillon, come here and help me figure out what's eating Mac. Look, he's even got his pants on."

Dillon Savich raised a dark brow at that, his expression saying quite clearly to me, The shit better have his pants on.

I settled back in the chair. What difference did five minutes make? I'd still be out of here soon enough.

Besides, it was best that some of my friends knew what was going on.

"Look, guys, I've got to go home and pack. I've got to fly out to Oregon. My sister was in an accident last night. She's in a coma. I can't stay here."

Sherlock knelt beside the chair and took one of my big hands between hers. "Jilly? She's in a coma? What happened?"

I closed my eyes against immediate memories of that demented dream, or whatever it had been. "I called Oregon early this morning," I said. "Her husband Paul told me."

Sherlock cocked her head to one side and studied me for a moment. Then she asked, "Why'd you call her?"

Sherlock not only had heart and guts, she had this brain that could accelerate electrons.

Savich was still standing by the open doorway, looking fit and big and tough. His eyes were on his wife, Sherlock, who was just looking up at me, waiting for me to strip open my guts for her, which I was about to do. No contest.

"Just sit back and close your eyes, Mac, that's right. I won't let anyone bother you. I wish I had some of Dillon's private reserve whiskey from Kentucky. It would mellow you out quicker than Scan can get Dillon up with his best yell."

"That didn't make a whole lot of sense, Sherlock, but let me tell you that Midge brought me a beer last night," I said. "I didn't puke. It tasted really good." An understatement. I couldn't imagine sex being better than that one Bud Light.

"I'm so happy for you," Sherlock said, and patted my cheek. And waited. I watched her look over at her husband, standing there just inside the hospital room, all calm and relaxed, his arms crossed over his chest. It was a pity that there weren't more like him at the Bureau, instead of the clone bureaucrats who were too afraid to do anything that hadn't been sanctioned for at least a decade. I hated it when I saw it, prayed I wouldn't turn out to be like that in the years to come. Maybe I had a chance not to be, in the Counter-Terrorism section. The bureaucrats did their thing in Washington, but in the field the rules fell away. You were on your own, or at least you were if you were on the ground with a terrorist group in Tunisia.

"A dream," I said finally. "It started with a dream last night. I dreamed about drowning, or about someone drowning. I think it was Jilly." I told them everything I could remember, which was nearly all of it. I shrugged and said, "That's why I called so early this morning. I found out the dream, or whatever it was, had happened. She's in a coma." What is that going to mean? I wondered yet again. Will she live but be a vegetable? Will we have to decide whether or not to unplug her?

"I'm scared," I said, looking at Sherlock. "More scared than I've ever been in my life. Facing those terrorists with only a.450 Magnum Express wasn't even in the same ballpark. Getting blown into the air in that car explosion didn't come close to this, trust me."

"You wasted two of them, Mac," Savich said, "including the leader, and you would have been blown into a thousand pieces if it hadn't been for a bit of luck-the angle of the blast was sharper than they intended-and a well-placed sand dune."

I paused a moment, then nodded. "That I understand, but I don't understand this dream; it's just plain scary. I felt her hit the water. I felt pain, then nothing, like I was dead. "I was with her, or I was her, or something. It's crazy, but I can't pretend it didn't happen. I've got to go to Oregon. Not next week or even in two days. I've got to go today."

Because Sherlock was right here with me, because I was so scared I wanted to howl and cry at the same time, I leaned over and pulled Sherlock up against my good side. One skinny little arm came around my neck. I felt tears clog my throat, but I wasn't about to let them out. I'd never live that one down, even if neither of them told a single soul. No, I just held her close, felt that soft hair of hers tease my nose. I looked over at Savich. The two of them had been married a year and a half. I'd been Sher-lock's Man of Honor at their wedding. Savich was well known and well liked in the Bureau. Both Savich and Sherlock were in the CAU, the Criminal Apprehension Unit, headed by Savich, who'd created the unit some three years before. I managed to get myself together and said, "You've got a good one here, Savich."

"Yeah, on top of everything else, she gave me the neatest little kid in all of Washington. You haven't seen Scan since he was a month old, Mac. It's time you did. He's pushing five months."

"I'll get over as soon as I can."

"See that you do. Hey, Sherlock, you okay? Don't worry about Mac. He'll go to Oregon and see what the hell's going on. We'll be here if he needs backup, not more than a five-hour plane ride away.

"Mac, are you sure you're ready to climb back onto your horse? You still look a bit on the weedy side.

How about coming to stay with us for a couple of days before you take off? We'll put you next to the baby's room. Too bad you can't breast-feed. That would make up for us having to take care of you."

As it turned out, I ended up staying at the hospital for another day and a half until, frankly, I couldn't stand it anymore. I spoke to Paul twice a day. There was no change in Jilly's condition. The doctors were still saying there was nothing they could do but just wait and see. Kevin and his boys were in Germany, and my sister Gwen, a buyer for Macy's, was in New York. I told them I'd keep them posted as often as I could.

I flew west that Friday, on an early morning flight from Washington Dulles. I rented a light blue Ford Taurus at the Portland International Airport without much hassle, which was always a pleasant surprise in my experience.

It was a beautiful day, not a hint of humidity, no rain clouds, a mild seventy degrees with a light breeze.

I'd always liked the West Coast, especially Oregon with its raw, wild mountains and deep-cut gorges with rapids roaring through them. And the ocean, sweeping against the coast for some three hundred miles, all of it savage and magnificent.