Catherine Coulter: Split Second

Lucy couldn’t bear it. Tears streamed down her face. Ruth pulled her close, stroked her up and down her back, trying to calm her, and said over and over, “He’s overwhelmed with pain, Lucy. Of course it wasn’t your fault.”

Lucy clutched Ruth hard. She smelled death around her. She looked back to see Uncle Alan staring at her over his wife’s head, his face ravaged, tears streaming down his face.

Aunt Jennifer pulled back and looked up at her husband. “It isn’t Lucy’s fault, Alan. It’s mine, all of it. If only I hadn’t slept with that man, if only—this ring, why did it mean so much to her? I don’t understand.”

Jennifer leaned into her husband again, sobbing.

Lucy heard the front door crash open, heard men’s and women’s voices yelling, heard their wild footsteps.

And Ollie’s voice shouting, “Stop! All of you!”

She barely registered the voices swirling around her, some urgent, some weary, all of them were moving, doing their jobs. They weren’t looking at her, not like Uncle Alan was. They were looking at Miranda’s body.

Washington, D.C.

Washington Memorial Hospital

Late Sunday night

Lucy laid her hand lightly on Coop’s shoulder while Dr. Rayburn probed the bullet wound in his side. She looked at the line of black stitches in his bruised flesh, the traces of blood that had oozed from between the black thread until Dr. Rayburn covered it with a fresh bandage. It scared her to her toes to think how very close it had come to penetrating his belly. If only she’d been outside with him when Kirsten had taken him—

Dr. Rayburn straightened, gave Coop a toothy grin. “There you go, Agent. Except for some lingering soreness, you’ll be good as new in a couple of days. Well, more like two weeks. You’re a lucky man. No exercise until the sutures are out in seven days, well, more like no exercise for three weeks, and try to keep off your feet for a couple of days. No, er, strenuous activity, either. Don’t want to pull those stitches apart.” He shot a look toward Lucy.

“Indeed not,” she said.

“What?” Coop asked.

Dr. Rayburn kept talking. “I’m happy to say the surgeon who saw you in that ER in North Carolina fixed you up fine—good, tight stitches, no signs of infection. Still, I’m glad you stopped here before heading on home, if only to be sure. You can see your own doctor tomorrow.”

“Nah, not tomorrow, I’ll give him a call on Tuesday. I feel fine, Doctor, thank you—”

“That’s the narcotics you’ve got on board talking, Coop.” Lucy patted his hand, and turned to Dr. Rayburn, who was no older than she was, bags under his eyes the size of carry-ons. “He’ll do exactly what you’ve said, not to worry. I’ve got him well in hand.”

“Only because I’m such a nice guy. But Lucy, we’ll have to discuss this strenuous-activity business.”

“Ah, are you both FBI agents?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“You guys married?”

“I barely know him,” Lucy said, kissed Coop’s cheek, and smiled at Dr. Rayburn.

Dr. Rayburn opened the curtain around the stretcher, shook hands with the waiting Savich and Sherlock on his way out, and then he was off in a fast walk, his white coat flapping.

Savich and Sherlock walked into the cubicle and examined Coop’s face. “Lucy’s right,” Savich said. “You’re happier now than you’ll be for a good two days. Lots of rest, Coop. I don’t want to see you at work until Wednesday.”

“But—”

“Wednesday,” Savich said very pleasantly, and turned to Lucy. “Lucy, we were so relieved to hear you’re okay. We’re very sorry about your cousin.”

Lucy could only nod. The reality of Miranda’s suicide crashed in again.

“I want you to take the time off, too, Lucy. Stay with Coop. You can help us get a better handle on what happened later. The police detective in charge, Mylo Dwyer, wants to understand what brought all this about, since he only saw the tragic ending. He told me it seemed Miranda became enraged because her mother told her Alan Silverman wasn’t her biological father. There was also mention of a ring. He wants to speak to you again. One thing, though—however did you get away from Miranda?”

“She tied my wrists to the chair arms, but managed to work one hand free. I couldn’t get my SIG or her Kel Tec, but I could run, and so I did.”

“Why did Miranda want the ring so badly?”

Lucy looked him straight in the eyes. “The ring is very old, and it may have been in my family for hundreds of years. She wanted it for herself.”

Enough to kill you? Enough to kill herself ? Savich shot a look at Sherlock, who was patting Coop like she patted Sean when he hurt himself.

He said to Lucy, “It looks like you’re going to have your hands full with John Wayne here. Both of you regroup, take it easy, come to grips with the fact that all of this is over. You ride herd on him until Wednesday, okay? You’re both going to need the rest, because I think you’re going to want to go on a long trip on Wednesday.

“Coop insisted on calling Vincent Delion while we were still hunkered in that tobacco field, told him where Kirsten said she’d buried Arnette Carpenter.

“They found her. Roy Carpenter wants both of you to come to the funeral in San Francisco on Thursday, to thank you for finding his wife, but only if you’re feeling up to it. There’s a visit to Nob Hill you’ll want to make, too, while you’re there.”

Coop said, “I’ll be more than ready to fly out on Wednesday. As for Nob Hill, how did you know, Savich?”

“It only made sense. And we’ve had time to get a good look at the calls Kirsten made from her cell. By the way, Kirsten is out of surgery in North Carolina as of an hour ago. They say she’ll survive her wounds fine, so now it’ll be up to the state and federal courts to decide where they’ll try her first.”

“Amen to that,” Coop said. He stood quietly while Sherlock buttoned his shirt. He gave Savich a big loopy grin. “I’m really glad we all made it out of this. I didn’t like my chances for a while. And that mom, she was so happy her kids are okay she might forget to sue us. She and her kids sure have a story for a lifetime—bringing down Ted Bundy’s daughter. Can you imagine how popular those kids are going to be in school?”

He stopped cold, swallowed. He realized he’d been babbling, when Lucy had almost died as well and had lost yet another family member. Like Savich and Mylo Dwyer, he simply didn’t understand what had driven Miranda to try to kill Lucy, then to kill herself. So who cared if Alan Silverman wasn’t her father? Did it matter so much to her? Evidently so. And that ring. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lucy interrupted him. “Smile, Coop, and relax, you’re feeling all those meds they gave you. Enjoy not having any pain. That’s a good thing.”

Sherlock leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Well done, Coop. You brought Kirsten down.” Then she clasped Lucy’s shoulders and smiled at her. “I am so relieved you are all right.” And she hugged her.

Sherlock looked after them as they walked to the waiting room, Coop flying high and happy. She could hear him humming from where she stood, his arm around Lucy’s shoulders. “He looks like he should be punching cattle in Wyoming in that shearling coat. I’m glad he didn’t ruin it, only the one little blood spot inside.” She gave Dillon a look. “I’d have to say he looks nearly as hot in it as you do in your black leather.”

He arched a brow at her, then called after them, “Lucy, if you want to talk to me about what happened, give me a call.”

Lucy didn’t slow, said over her shoulder, “I don’t think I’ll ever have anything else to say, Dillon, but thank you.”