Catherine Coulter - Split Second

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I hope we do make a difference.”

She sprawled again against him. “Dillon, do you think Coop and Lucy are sleeping together? I mean, they do remind me a bit of us, and look where that led.”

“They don’t dislike each other any longer, that’s for sure.”

“And it’s you who put them together because they weren’t getting along. Coop’s reputation—I guess that isn’t a problem any longer. Now it’s like a red beacon glowing whenever the two of them get within six feet of each other.”

“I never believed his reputation, anyway,” Savich said. “It didn’t fit the man.”

Sherlock sighed. “This whole ring-and-letter business—at least she did tell Coop about the letter, so that’s no longer a big secret.”

He said, “It’s driving me nuts trying to figure out what the blasted ring can do. How could it have saved Lucy’s mother? If it could have, somehow, then it’s something miraculous, I know it in my gut. But what?”

She said, “That word—SEFYLL—it means to stop, to be stationary, right? What does that mean? What stops?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’ll come out.”

“Maybe, but I don’t hold out much hope. Lucy’s a clam, and maybe she has to be—or maybe she’s supposed to be.”

“If they get married, do you think they can stay in the unit together?”

“That’ll be up to the director and Mr. Maitland. I’d have no problem with it. It would be pretty weird if I did.”

“Can you imagine the jokes? We’d be known as the dating service of the bureau.” She added, “I forget to tell you, I got a call from Dane before I came up to sing a bedtime duet with Sean. Dane thinks he’s got a bead on the guy who may have driven the other white van. He’s betting his name’s Andrew ‘Hoss’ Kennen, a twotime felon, spent time in Briarwood with the dead guy, Ben Eddy Dukes. The two of them got paroled about the same time.”

Savich heard her voice slow, knew she was about ready to hang it up. So was he.

He kissed her, said against her temple, “I heard the weather’s going to be great tomorrow. Why don’t we ask Coop and Lucy to go to the park with us tomorrow morning.”

“That’d be good,” Sherlock murmured, tucked herself closer, and went to sleep.

Delaney Park

Saturday morning

Savich flicked the Frisbee to Sean, who yelled as he caught it, then whipped it off to Coop, who, surprised, had to back up ten feet to snag it out of the air.

Lucy whistled. “Great throw, Sean. You had Coop on his heels.”

“Looks like another champion Frisbee player,” Sherlock said, and promptly dropped the Frisbee Coop sailed to her.

“Mama, you dropped it! We’ve got to start over!”

Sherlock apologized, promised to pay attention, and sent the Frisbee toward Lucy. They got into a nice steady rhythm until it was Sean’s turn to miss one. He picked up the Frisbee, hugged it to his chest, and did a little dance. “I dropped it, but it doesn’t matter. We broke the record. Twenty-one catches without dropping it. I counted real careful, Mama. Marty won’t believe it. You’ll tell her it was twenty-one times, won’t you?”

“Yep, I swear.”

Marty Perry wouldn’t be happy, she thought, ruffling her son’s dark hair and smiling into his glowing face.

At least the weatherman hadn’t lied—it was a lovely morning, bright sunshine, the temperature hugging sixty. Another dozen Frisbee throws and all of them would be tossing off their jackets. The small meadow in the park was empty except for the five of them. Soon, though, Sherlock knew, more families would show up, excited kids in tow, and the Frisbee circle would steadily grow larger as Sean, always ready to make new friends, invited kids and parents to join until it was a zoo. The adults would then diplomatically excuse themselves so it was a kids-only Frisbee fest.

But for now, Sean wanted to throw the Frisbee farther and farther—okay if they missed now, since they’d broken the record—until Savich saw Sean was panting, his face red. “Let’s take a break,” he called out, flipped the Frisbee to Sherlock, and headed for the cooler set against a huge old oak tree. He grinned, hearing Sean announce to Coop and Lucy that Daddy was tired.

He’d just turned, smiling, with bottles of lemonade in his hands, when there was a loud cracking sound.

Savich flew backward, blood spurting out of his chest.

Lucy saw Savich hurled back, the bottles of lemonade flying out of his hands. All the blood, a fountain of blood—oh, God, he’s dead. She didn’t think, sprinted toward him as she grabbed the ring and yelled, “SEFYLL!”

Everything stopped.

After an instant, she saw Savich standing near the cooler again, and she ran all out, knew she had to get to him before eight seconds ticked away. If felt as if she was running in a dream, her legs moving molasses-slow, as if she was stroking against the tide, as if time itself was pushing against her, and she fought desperately to outrace the passing seconds. She knew if she didn’t reach Savich, he would die again. White noise filled her head, and every fiber of her strained to get to him before that eighth second clicked past, and the present would be past again, and Kirsten would shoot him in the heart. She wanted to scream at him to move, but she knew he couldn’t hear her. So far away he stood, not knowing that within a second, he was going to be dead.

Now Savich was rising from the cooler again, the bottles of lemonade in his hands, turning toward them, smiling. Lucy screamed at him, and he looked at her, startled, just as she smashed into him, sending both of them flying backward to the ground. Not an instant later, a gunshot rang out over their heads.

There were shouts and more gunshots, fast and close. Savich flipped her under him, covering her as best he could. All Lucy could think was I was in time; I got to him in time; thank you, God. She felt him unclip his SIG and roll off her, returning fire. She marveled at how fast he’d reacted to keep her safe.

“Stay down, Lucy!”

But she rolled over onto her stomach, unclipped her own SIG, and fired. She heard the others firing as well, all of them in the direction of the trees at the far end of the park.

Would Kirsten try to kill Sean? No, Sherlock was protecting him, not firing back, covering Sean, keeping him safe.

As suddenly as it began, it was over. Lucy heard no movement, no noise, not even from the birds, only her own heavy breathing. Then Savich was shaking her, his voice fast and impatient. “Keep behind that oak, Lucy. Thank God, Sherlock’s got Sean; they’re okay. I’m going to circle around after her.”

She heard Coop speaking to the 911 operator as he crouched down behind a park trash bin. She saw Sherlock with Sean in her arms, rocking him as she looked out toward them from behind a tree.

She heard faint shouts from people walking toward the park, wondering what had happened, but they really didn’t touch her. She was lost in a daze of numb shock mixed with such boundless relief she wanted to weep.

She looked up to see Savich trotting back to her, his SIG back in its belt clip, speaking into his cell. She ran to him, said over and over, “You’re all right. Thank God, you’re all right.” She rubbed her hands over his chest, unaware that Savich was standing still as a statue in front of her, staring silently down at her. Finally, he pulled her hands away, held them in his.

She closed her eyes a moment to block out the enormity of what had happened—she’d succeeded, the ring had succeeded, Kirsten hadn’t killed him. But what if she’d been two yards farther away? What if she hadn’t acted fast enough? Savich would be dead; his life would have been snuffed out by that psychopath.