Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  IN MEMORY OF A VERY EXCEPTIONAL

  FBI SPECIAL AGENT

  MICHAEL M. (MICKY) ROMAN

  1967–1998

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  To the Prince of editing,

  my very special Other Half,

  whose abilities never fail to astound me.

  Thank you,

  Catherine

  1

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  LATE AUGUST

  TUESDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

  Sherlock had the next hour planned out to the minute. A quick stop at Clyde’s Market for mozzarella cheese for Dillon’s lasagna and some Cheerios for Sean’s breakfast tomorrow, then thirty minutes at the gym: fifteen minutes on the treadmill and some quick upper-body work, that is if she managed to avoid Tim Maynard, a newly divorced firefighter who kept putting the moves on her. She was bummed she couldn’t be with Dillon at the gym as usual, sweating her eyebrows off, but she’d been tied up in a meeting about the Mason Springs, Ohio, middle school murders. She thought of Agent Lucy McKnight, who’d been in the meeting with her until she had to run out to throw up. Lucy was four months pregnant now, nearly over the heaves, she had announced when she’d returned to the meeting, and everyone had applauded. Sherlock, Shirley, the CAU secretary and commandant, and Agent Ruth Noble were giving Lucy a just-beyond first-trimester party this Friday evening at Shirley’s condo. Not a baby shower, too early for that. Their gift to her would be two pairs of pants with elastic waists. Sherlock flashed back to her own pregnancy with Sean, how happy and terrified she’d been. Lucy had a good man in Agent Coop McKnight. What a wild ride the two of them had had before they’d hooked up.

  Sherlock had only enough time to jerk the wheel left, fast and hard, before the black SUV struck her passenger side. The impact hurled her Volvo into a parked sedan, and then spun her into the oncoming traffic. The world sped up, blurred into insanity. As if from a great distance, she heard horns honking, screaming metal, yells. Her Volvo struck the front fender of a truck, glanced off, hit a sedan trying to swerve out of her way, ricocheted off yet another swerving car. Her head slammed against the steering wheel an instant before the airbag exploded in her face. She heard a sharp thunk and saw only a flash of what looked like a body flying across the hood of the Volvo, and bouncing off her wildly spinning car. Her brain registered splattered blood on the windshield—she’d hit someone. He’d come out of nowhere. She looked at all the blood, so much blood. Hers? The person’s she’d hit? The world turned round and round, a whirling kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, until they ended when the Volvo’s rear end slammed into a fire hydrant. Her head was thrown violently forward into the bag and she was out.

  2

  * * *

  Justice Cummings ran hard out of the alley between two brick buildings and into the street, looking back over his shoulder at the man and woman who were chasing him. He was a geek, not a runner, and he was surprised they weren’t closer. It had been a fluke he’d gotten away from them. They’d been slowed down by a homeless man who’d shuffled between them, his head down, mumbling. Justice didn’t know who they were, but they had to know he was CIA. There was no doubt in his mind they were out to take him, or worse. But why him? Why now? His brain squirreled around. All he could think of was the bizarre chatter he’d been picking up on the Russian dark web, some new kind of covert surveillance technology they were interested in, chatter his bosses hadn’t thought worth pursuing. But why attack him? Besides, how could anyone outside the campus have found out about anything he did? He never spoke about his work when he left Langley, he knew the rules.

  He was vaguely aware of shouts and screams as he ran all-out into the street to get away from those people. He never saw the wildly spinning Volvo until it struck him, sent him airborne. His face smashed against the windshield, and he kept flying, the force of the impact bouncing him over the hood. He landed on his side, not a foot from a car sitting sideways in the street, the driver yelling out the window toward the still-spinning car. Adrenaline rushed through him. He couldn’t lie there, even though blood was spewing from his face and pain seemed to be everywhere. They’d catch him. He managed to jump up and run hobbling through the gauntlet of screeching and stopped cars to the other side of the street, pushed through the gathering crowd, all staring, not at him but at the growing mayhem. He looked back and saw a car slammed into a fire hydrant, saw the windshield was streaked with blood, his blood. But he was alive, he could move. He didn’t know where they were, and maybe they’d have a hard time getting to him through the growing chaos of mangled cars, blaring horns, and throngs of people running.

  A moment later he was alone in another alley next to a Korean restaurant, the smell of kimchi and the fetid odor of garbage from the two dumpsters mixing with the smell of blood on his face. He ran behind the far dumpster, pulled off his hoodie, and ripped off a sleeve to press against his nose. It ached fiercely, probably broken. His breathing was ragged and too fast. He tried to calm down, but it was hard. He was afraid and he hurt all over. He kept the sleeve pressed hard against his nose and waited. His ribs hurt and his left hip felt like it had been twisted sideways, but he could still move. He looked to see blood running down his leg, and just seeing it, recognizing his leg was hurt, made the pain blast through him. He ripped off his other sleeve and made a tourniquet, tied it above the wound. He didn’t know how bad his injury was, only hoped to stop the bleeding. He stood there, panting, trying to deal with the pain. In twenty minutes he had gone from thinking he’d be having a cup of coffee with a nice woman he’d met at Langley who’d never shown up at the café she herself had chosen, to running for his life. Was it all a setup? She’d been part of a plan? He realized he knew next to nothing about her except he’d thought her pretty and very nice. But he’d been lucky, he’d gotten away, only to run full-tilt into a spinning car and bounce over the hood, and maybe that was lucky, too. Wonder of wonders, he hadn’t broken all his body parts, only his nose, and hopefully the cut on his leg wasn’t bad. Yes, he’d call that big-time luck. He wiped the blood from his face, hoped he wasn’t only smearing it enough to scare people.

  He knew he had to leave the alley. The man and woman must have seen him flying over the hood of that car, and they were probably still looking for him, maybe thinking he’d been too injured to get very far. They’d come again, work their way through the chaos to find him. It had to be about his work, a foreign government, maybe. What could they possibly want from him that was worth a kidnapping in broad daylight? Or worse. There were CIA protocols to follow, an emergency number to call. But someone had betrayed him, maybe someone at Langley had set him up. Would they be the ones who came for him? Who could he trust?

  Justice felt pain building in his ribs, felt his leg throb, and his nose was on fire and still bleeding, but he wasn’t about to go to an ER, that would be the first place they’d look. He thought of calling his wife, but no way would he put her and their kids in danger. He could hunker down at home, it was empty, his family wasn’t there, but they’d know where he lived. So he was on his own until he didn’t hurt so much and had time to think this through. He had to move, but Justice knew he couldn’t make it far on foot. He called an Uber and set the pickup point on a street three blocks away, and thankfully saw the driver would be there in five minutes.

  Blood kept oozing out of his nose. All he could do was keep pressing hard as he slipped through the crowds of people leaving work, all hurrying, many of them focused on their smartphones, none paying him any attention. He kept looking back, but no one was following him. He’d lost them. He began to feel hope.

  3

  * * *

  Four blocks away, Savich was walking to his Porsche after a hard workout, hi
s muscles pumped and warm, and feeling pleased with himself. He was whistling, tossing the key fob into the air, catching it. He felt good, but he always felt good after working to his limits. He looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. Sherlock would be arriving soon, he had to get home to get the lasagna together. He climbed into the Porsche, pressed the starter. He knew she’d bring the extra mozzarella cheese for the lasagna that was defrosting, and maybe some ice cream for the cherry pie she’d made the previous evening, one of Sean’s favorites. He thought of Sean’s birthday list and laughed. His boy, who’d just learned how to ride a bike without training wheels two months ago, had said what he really wanted was a Schwinn three-speed. Yeah, like that would happen. Fortunately, he also wanted Steph Curry sneakers. Did somebody make Steph Curry sneakers for little kids? Probably so.

  He was buckling his seat belt when his cell belted out Gilbert Hillman’s “Shining on the Moon.”

  “Savich here.”

  “Agent Savich, this is Officer Ted Malone. There was a car accident. Your wife, Agent Sherlock, is in an ambulance on the way to Washington Memorial. I’m sorry, but I don’t know her status.” A slight pause. “It looked bad, sir. You need to hurry.”

  His world shrank instantly to a single black point. He roared out of the gym parking lot, wove between startled drivers on Wisconsin, and quickly picked up two police cars, sirens blaring. Finally, a vicious left brought him to the hospital’s emergency room entrance. He slammed on the brakes and jumped out of his Porsche in front of the ER, his shield held high as officers jumped out of their patrol cars, their guns drawn, yelling at him.

  “FBI,” he yelled, “car accident, my wife.” He threw the nearest officer his keys. “Please move my car.” Before they answered him he was through the doors.

  The place was a madhouse, but that was no surprise, it usually was. Savich threaded his way through the crowd of humanity to the counter.

  “My wife, Agent Sherlock, was brought in—a car accident. What can you tell me? I’m—”

  Savich wasn’t aware he was sheet white, his hands shaking, but Nurse Nancy Baker was. She said, her voice matter-of-fact, “I know who you are, Agent Savich. I’ll take you to her. Come.”

  “Is she hurt badly?”

  Nancy paused, laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Agent Savich, I don’t know the particulars, but the doctor’s with her. She’ll tell you.” She wasn’t about to tell him his wife had been unconscious on a stretcher, her beautiful curly red hair soaked with blood, more blood streaking in rivulets down her face. She’d recognized Agent Sherlock immediately, she’d been in a number of times, not as a patient but as an FBI agent, usually with her husband. More than that, she was well known, the heroine who’d saved countless lives at the hands of a terrorist at JFK several months before.

  Savich followed her, weaving through men, women, and several children, some upright, some in wheelchairs, some being comforted by relatives. They walked through swinging doors into a large space with curtained-off cubicles on each side, surrounding a central nursing station. Here it was a controlled chaos, the doctors, nurses, and techs moving fast, their faces intent and focused.

  From behind the curtains, Savich heard moans, a cry, and low voices speaking urgently or trying to soothe, one voice nearing hysteria, another calm and deep, reassuring. A doctor.

  The nurse pulled back the nearest curtain and stepped aside.

  Two nurses and two doctors were bending over Sherlock. The female doctor looked up, frowning. “Who are you?”

  Savich immediately held up his FBI creds. They always gave him instant access. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich. She’s Agent Sherlock. I’m her husband. Talk to me. What’s her status?”

  The woman straightened, walked to him, lightly laid her hand on his arm just as the nurse had. “I’m Dr. Loomis. That’s Dr. Luther.” She nodded toward a young man who was bending over Sherlock, lightly palpating her belly. “He told me about who she is and that you’d be coming. We have some urgent tests to do now, but I can tell you she’s got a gash over her temple that will need stitches, multiple contusions on her arms and chest. Nothing appears broken, but we’ll need X-rays to be sure. There are no signs of internal bleeding, but again, we need tests to confirm.

  “She was unconscious when she got to us, but she’s awake now, though still confused. She smiled up at me and said her head felt like it was kettledrumming. That’s a good sign, as you doubtless know. We’re about to take her for a CT brain scan and they’ll scan her chest, abdomen, and pelvis as well, our protocol for trauma of this sort. I’ll know more soon. Perhaps you’d like to go to the surgical waiting room on the second floor? It’s more private, less intense than the ER waiting room. I’ll come see you there. Agent Savich?” She squeezed his arm. “Are you with me?”

  Dr. Loomis knew he was scared senseless and would stay scared until she was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles his wife would recover. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough. She would be scared to death, too, if it were her husband or her daughter lying there.

  “I want to see her, a moment only. I—I need to see her.”

  Dr. Loomis stepped aside. “Only a moment, they’re ready for her in CT.”

  Sherlock’s eyes were closed. She lay perfectly still on a steel-framed gurney, most of her clothes cut off, the two nurses and the doctor surrounding her. So many bruises, cuts, and abrasions, as if she’d been thrown every which way. One of the nurses was speaking low to her, holding her hand as she pressed a strip of gauze over the cut on her temple. He swallowed when he saw all the blood—her hair was soaked with blood, it was black with blood.

  The other nurse moved aside at a nod from the doctor and Savich stepped in to lean over her. He lightly kissed her cheek, tasted her blood. He wanted to weep. “Sherlock? Sweetheart? Can you hear me?”

  She opened her eyes and stared up at him, her eyes vague, not quite focused on his face. “Are you here to tell me you’ve got to cut me open now?”

  “No cutting for you. You’re awake and that’s good. They’re going to take excellent care of you. You were in an accident, but you’ll be all right.”

  “An accident,” she whispered. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know yet, but your Volvo saved your life. Doesn’t matter, your next car’s going to be a Sherman tank.”

  “We really need to take her now, Agent Savich, it’s important,” Dr. Loomis said from behind him.

  He leaned down, kissed her again, and straightened. She was simply staring up at him, her mouth opening. He lightly laid his finger over her lips. “No, don’t talk. You can tell me everything later. I swear, you’ll be all right.”

  She looked up at the blurred face above her. All the people hovering around were wearing white, so much white. She didn’t understand why, but in that moment, it didn’t seem to matter. “Stay with me,” she whispered, and closed her eyes again.

  Savich held Sherlock’s hand as he walked beside the gurney out of the ER down a long hallway. She squeezed his hand once and his heart stuttered. He couldn’t stand seeing the smear of blood on her cheek, the blood matted in her hair beside the pressure bandage they’d placed on her head. No, she would be fine, her breathing was slow and steady. They pushed through another door, down another hallway, and through a door marked COMPUTED TOMOGRAPHY.

  “Time to leave her with us, Agent Savich,” Dr. Loomis said at the doorway. “I promise I’ll come speak to you as soon as I can.” She paused, then said, “Try not to worry, all right?”

  He leaned down, lightly cupped Sherlock’s face, kissed her mouth, and straightened. They wheeled her in and the door closed in his face. Savich stood staring at the door, aware of low voices, machines beeping, people hurrying past him. It seemed no one walked in this place, and for that he was grateful. He stood in front of the door, unable to move. He realized there was nothing he could do, and he hated it, hated feeling helpless. Slowly, Savich walked up the stairs past two nurses talking about a patient who’d thrown a bedpan
at an orderly, to the second floor surgical waiting room. It was empty. Well, who would want to operate at nearly seven o’clock in the evening? Only for emergencies, like Sherlock. He had to stop it, there was no talk of surgery. Not yet.

  It had been only a matter of months since Savich had spent time in that waiting room. Nothing had changed. It was small and square, its walls painted a light green, with three eye-level Monet water lily reproductions, lamps on side tables, and year-old magazines stacked neatly on a coffee table. A new Keurig machine held the place of honor on a table in the corner, pods of coffee and tea piled in a basket. He sat down, immediately jumped back up, and began to pace. He stopped, took a deep breath. He had to get it together, there were things he had to do. That steadied him. He pulled out his cell, called Gabriella. He told her what had happened, where he was. He heard Sean in the background. “Put him on, Gabriella, and please listen, this is what we’re going to tell him for now.”

  He said simply to his son, “Something has come up, Sean. Your mother and I won’t be home until late. Eat your dinner, ask nicely if Gabriella would like to play Captain Carr with you or maybe watch those clips of Steph Curry shooting three-pointers in China again. Go to bed when she tells you to. No whining, okay? You promise?” Of course, Sean wanted to know if they were chasing bad guys, and Savich, an excellent liar, spun a fine tale about three bank robbers on the loose, nothing to worry about. Finally, he said to Gabriella, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for hanging in with him.”

  There were others to call, but he simply couldn’t do it yet. He slipped his cell into his jacket pocket and eased back down on a surprisingly comfortable chair. He looked straight ahead at nothing in particular, and prayed.

  Savich was still sitting, his hands clasped between his knees, when Metro detective Ben Raven, a longtime friend, hurried in. “Ted Malone, one of the officers at the accident site, knew you and I were friends and called me. Savich, the nurse in the ER said Sherlock was getting tests, no word yet on the results.” Ben plowed his fingers through his hair. “Of course, you already know that.” He sat down beside Savich, laid his hand on his shoulder.