Catherine Coulter - Split Second

Jack Crowne said, “The plan was fine, except for that mob of people, most of them so drunk they barely realized they could have been shot dead.”

“We couldn’t have worked it any worse,” Ollie Hamish said.

Jack’s cell blasted out toe-tapping salsa. It was his fiancée, Rachel. He was smiling a little as he said hello to her and walked out of the waiting room.

No one left. They spent the next hour going over every detail of what happened, what they could have done differently, until all of them were so tired they couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say.

At three a.m. Dr. Oliver Pendergrass, his green scrubs dotted with blood, strode into the waiting room. In a surprising British accent, he said immediately, “He made it through surgery.”

There was a collective sigh of relief.

Dr. Pendergrass continued: “It amazes me what damage a single small bullet can do to the human body. That scrap of metal caused a great deal of injured bowel, I’m afraid, and I had to remove a good length of it. We’ll see how he does. The major risk now is overwhelming infection, in his belly and in his blood. The next few days will tell.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Savich said. “You and your staff should be aware there will be police at his door and in the hospital during his stay.”

Dr. Pendergrass said, “Yes, I thought as much. By the way, the anesthesiologist said Mr. Comafield was involved with this woman I’ve seen plastered all over the TV—Ted Bundy’s daughter?”

“That’s right,” Savich said. “I know it’s tough to get your brain around that one.”

Dr. Pendergrass said, “Involved how? Is he related to her in some way?”

Ruth said, “Not related but involved, I guess is the best word, and that’s why it’s so important he live—we’re hoping he can tell us where to find her.”

Savich asked, “When do you think he’ll be able to talk to us, Dr. Pendergrass?”

Dr. Pendergrass turned to him. “Sorry, Agent Savich, but he’s been in recovery only five minutes.” He looked down at his oversized watch. “I’d say he might be fully conscious soon, but I doubt he will have his brain together enough to answer your questions. Why don’t you get some sleep and come back here maybe six hours from now?”

Savich wasn’t about to leave Sherlock, but he ordered the rest of the agents home. He had no worries about Sean, who was sleeping at Simon and Lily’s house.

One by one, they rose and shrugged into their coats. “Go home. I want you guys fresh tomorrow, your brains in gear. Don’t come back here, go on into the office about noon. I’ll be there when I can. Coop, you and Lucy meet me here at nine, but call me first to make sure Comafield is still breathing.”

Savich walked back to Sherlock’s room, listened to her even breathing for a while, then eyed the big chair beside her bed. No reason he couldn’t snooze for a while.

He fell asleep immediately, her hand lying limply in his.

Thursday morning

Sherlock’s voice was raw. “I’d planned to pour the drugged beer on the floor beside my bar stool. There were so many people weaving around, dancing, singing, I thought I could pull it off. But then I saw Comafield staring at me, not only that, but Kirsten moved closer to me, no more than six inches away. I couldn’t toss it. If I’d tried to lip it, she’d have seen, so I had to drink it, no choice, but I didn’t drink very much.”

Savich wanted to tell her she should have called the whole thing off, simply left, but he kept his mouth shut. She’d made a judgment call. If they’d all done what they were supposed to do, her decision would have led to catching Bundy’s daughter.

Sherlock continued, “I was feeling pretty bad by the time we got outside. I don’t know if you saw me, but I hit her as hard as I could, pathetic though that was. At least I caught her by surprise, knocked her down, pulled my gun, and then everything went south. Where does that expression come from, Dillon? Then I remember being on the sidewalk, throwing up and wanting to die. I realize now that only a few seconds passed, but I’ll tell you, it seemed like hours. What really happened?”

Coop and Lucy stood on the opposite side of the bed, not looking too bad, considering they’d had maybe four hours of sleep. Coop gave her a running commentary on the havoc and the mayhem, until he got to where Sherlock had refused to drop her gun, even with Billy the Cop hanging all over her and feeling like she was going to die. He paused, wiggled his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Spit it out, Coop, or I’ll deck you, maybe tomorrow. What happened then?” She rubbed her throat. She sounded like a frog, but the soreness was down and the hospital tapioca had settled nicely in her empty stomach. A nurse had told her cheerfully that she’d had her stomach pumped. So stomach lavage was “ the little bit of this, little bit of that” her husband had told her about. She suddenly wasn’t so sure about the tapioca.

Coop told her about the gunshots after Comafield blew out of the alleyway, protected from return fire by the crowd, and how Savich had managed to put the bullet in his belly while on the run.

Sherlock felt her body creak with effort to push the stupid button that raised the bed so she could look at everyone straight on. When Savich would have helped her, she shook her head. She could do this. Once she was sitting up, she said, “What happened to Billy the Cop? I remember he was yelling at me, waving a Beretta around.”

Lucy said, “Full name’s William Benedict, and he’s a longtime homicide detective with the Baltimore Police Department. The Texas Range Bar and Grill is his neighborhood bar, been going there for years. He went after you, Sherlock, because you had a gun on Kirsten, but then, thank goodness, he realized what was happening. He took a bullet instead, but he’ll be fine. I heard him laughing this morning as I walked down the hall, talking about Gator and his freaking bat. What a story he has to tell his buds.”

Savich glanced at his Mickey Mouse watch, patted Sherlock’s hand. “It’s nine o’clock. I’m off to see Bruce Comafield. Coop, Lucy, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think it’s best I speak to him alone. You guys stay here—if I need you, I’ll call.”

When Savich saw they would both argue, he raised his hand. “Look, we need information, and we need it now, with no messing around. I’m going to question him. Trust me, okay?” He didn’t tell them that he’d already asked Dr. Pendergrass to cut down Comafield’s morphine, told him exactly why. Savich wanted him awake and on the edge, if possible.

Bruce Comafield was in a small glass-fronted room in the ICU on the third floor. An FBI agent was seated at his door, his legs crossed, a magazine unopened on his lap.

“Hi, John,” Savich said to Agent Frish. “Anything interesting?”

“Nope, if by that you mean Kirsten Bolger waltzing by, maybe to shoot him to keep him quiet.”

Savich smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

“Nope, not a whiff of her.”

“Keep a sharp eye, okay?”

“You’d better believe it. I wouldn’t want to get taken down by that crazy-ass woman.”

Savich stood in the doorway for a moment, staring over at Bruce Comafield. There were lines running into his arms, a line running under the hospital blanket. He had an oxygen clip in his nose, and he was awake, moaning, his eyes closed, turning his head back and forth on the flat pillow.

He wasn’t in happyland. Good.

Savich didn’t say anything, simply walked to his bedside and looked down at him. Slowly, Comafield became aware of him, turned his head back, and opened his eyes to look up at him.