Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  “Thanks for coming, Ben.” Savich looked at his friend. “It’s strange. There’s nothing I can do, only sit here like a zombie and wait. And wait. I don’t think they ever run out of tests. Her hair was soaked with blood, Ben, it was black.”

  “You know as well as I do scalp wounds bleed bad. It doesn’t mean much.”

  Savich shook himself. “Yes, I know. Do you know what happened? Who hit her?”

  4

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

  TUESDAY EVENING

  Ben said, “An SUV ran a red light, swerved suddenly, and broadsided her passenger side, sent the Volvo into a spin. She ended up rear-ending a fire hydrant.”

  Savich saw it clearly in his mind. She’d had an instant of awareness, and then wham—the rest would have been a blur. He’d bet Sherlock didn’t even know exactly what had happened. She was an excellent driver, but spinning backward into a fire hydrant? Shut it off. He had to know more, had to see. “Do you have photos of the accident?”

  Ben hesitated and Savich merely stared at him. “All right.” Ben pulled out his cell and scrolled down, past a dozen shots of Callie, his wife, smiling that wonderful smile of hers, tickling their baby daughter, Taylor, who was showing all her gums she was laughing so hard. He stopped and handed his cell to Savich. “There are several videos witnesses forwarded to us, so, if you wish, you can watch some of what happened after the accident. Since Sherlock is well known, you can bet people will upload some videos on YouTube.” He handed Savich his cell and watched him stare at the totaled Volvo, the fire hydrant rammed into its rear, the smears of blood across the windshield.

  “That’s not her blood, Savich. The blood on the windshield is on the outside, which means the Volvo struck someone when it was out of control.”

  The next shot was of two paramedics lifting an unconscious Sherlock out of the driver’s side. Then a video of a woman somewhere in her thirties, her hair in black tangles straggling down nearly to her shoulders, wearing a brown trench coat, of all things, in the middle of summer. She was limping slightly as she walked past a paramedic and away from the smashed front end of a big black Escalade. She was holding her arm, and looked to be talking a mile a minute.

  Savich felt killing rage, swallowed. “This woman’s the one who hit her, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re telling me she walked away? With what? A broken arm and a limp?”

  Ben said, “Yes, and some bruises. She’s downstairs in the ER with two officers, along with one other person who was hurt. The woman’s name is Jasmine Palumbo, age thirty-six. She works as a security engineer for the Bexholt Group, going on eight years.”

  Savich nodded. The Bexholt Group was a communications security company owned by Garrick Bexholt, headquartered in Maryland.

  “Witnesses told Officer Malone how Palumbo came barreling through the intersection like a bat out of hell. Palumbo swears she didn’t see the red light, didn’t see Sherlock until it was too late, said she tried to stop, but maybe her brakes failed. We’ll check out the brakes. Sherlock saw her coming at the Volvo passenger side at the last second and instinctively jerked the wheel left, so she was hit at an angle, and that sent her into a parked car, then into a spin. Thankfully there wasn’t a lot of traffic in either direction, but still, in all she clipped a Tesla, a Ford F-150, and two sedans before spinning backward to smash into the fire hydrant. The airbag saved her life.

  “As for Palumbo, the paramedic told Malone he thought she would be fine. Still, they’re doing a tox screen, checking to see how badly her leg and arm are injured. After she hit Sherlock, she swerved and crashed into a kiosk, injured a couple of passersby and the man selling newspapers. She’ll pay a hefty fine for reckless driving, but she won’t go to jail unless she was on drugs or drunk. It’ll be ruled an accident. I don’t know anything more yet. I’ll forward her insurance information.”

  “What about the blood on the windshield, Ben?”

  “Now, there’s a question I can’t answer yet. All we know for sure is that according to a couple of witnesses, a man ran out into the street in front of Sherlock as she was spinning and she struck him. He was thrown up onto the hood and into the windshield, bounced off the other side. It wasn’t her fault, of course. But after that bounce, he disappeared, seems to have run off. There was pandemonium, as you can imagine, people calling 911, rushing to help, shooting videos, you name it. So far he’s not on any of the videos. We don’t know who he is.”

  “You have a description?”

  “We know it’s a man, age undetermined, but young enough and fit enough to run fast. He looked like a tourist—shirt, jeans, sneakers, a watch cap. We have people out looking for him, checking with other ERs to see if he took himself to one. One woman told Officer Casspi the guy was running out of an alley between two buildings, looking back over his shoulder, like someone might be chasing him.

  “Obviously he has to be hurt, what with the hard impact, all that blood on the windshield. Maybe there was someone chasing him, they picked him up and hauled him away? Don’t know yet. No one’s reported seeing anything like that, but again, all the attention was on Sherlock.

  “I have two men backtracking him, checking to see if there was a robbery, anything hinky to set someone after him. If he did manage to walk away on his own, there’ll be a blood trail. I hope. We should find him soon.”

  Ben saw Savich’s hands clench, flex. “Listen, Savich, when Palumbo is cleared from the ER, the officers will take her to the Daly Building until her tox screen comes back. I’ll have control.” Again Ben touched his shoulder. “A favor, Savich, don’t get involved with Palumbo, it’ll keep things cleaner. It sounds like she wasn’t paying attention, probably looking off at something, got distracted. If she was high, I’ll clap the irons on her myself and haul her to a cell.”

  Savich managed a ghost of a smile. The two men sat side by side, quiet now. Savich couldn’t get the image of Sherlock’s beautiful hair soaked with blood out of his mind. He wasn’t about to call her parents until he knew more. He swallowed, he had to call his boss, Jimmy Maitland.

  Within twenty minutes FBI agents began to arrive, among them Davis Sullivan, Lucy McKnight, and Shirley Needleham, the CAU secretary, with Mr. Maitland at their head. Ben had to repeat what had happened three more times. When Dr. Loomis walked in an hour later, the surgical waiting room was full, everyone coming to their feet when she appeared in the doorway. She smiled at them. “Agent Sherlock’s CT scans were completely normal, except for the superficial injuries. No intracranial bleeding, no broken bones, no sign of internal bleeding. She suffered a concussion, of course, and a cut on her head we stitched, and as Agent Savich knows, there are considerable upper-body contusions and bruising. But with some luck, she’ll be fine.” Given the photos a police officer had shown her of the crash, Dr. Loomis was amazed Agent Sherlock survived, but she didn’t say that. She knew Agent Savich, probably all the agents in this waiting room, had seen the photos. She added, “Given the severity of the accident, she’s very lucky. Right now, she needs quiet and rest. We won’t know more about how bad her concussion is until tomorrow morning, when any remaining symptoms could manifest themselves. I’ll review what we can expect privately with you later, Agent Savich. I want to monitor her closely throughout the night, so I prefer she stay in the ICU. If you wish to stay with her, I’ll have a cot brought in for you. As you know, the cubicles are small and I doubt you’ll get much sleep.

  “As for the rest of you, alas, I can’t offer you the five-star accommodation we’re offering Agent Savich. I can assure all of you she will get the best of care.” She smiled really big. “After all, she’s famous, isn’t she? The heroine of JFK.”

  Dr. Loomis looked at all the relieved faces, some smiling back and nodding at what she’d said.

  Agent Davis Sullivan raised a finger. “May we see her in the morning?”

  Now, this young man co
uld raise a flutter, Dr. Loomis thought, not immune. She said, “Check with Agent Savich first. He’ll let you know if visiting tomorrow is a good idea.” She turned to Savich, who still looked white around the gills, and something else, too. He was angry. She didn’t blame him. She’d heard the woman who’d struck Agent Sherlock’s car was downstairs in the ER. She’d walked away with a sprained arm, now in a sling, and nothing but bruises on her leg. Didn’t that just figure? “Agent Savich, I’ll send an orderly in to take you to her.”

  When she left, everyone started high-fiving and talking at once. Savich shook Ben’s hand, started to thank everyone for coming, but when a skinny young black orderly with thick glasses and a goatee showed up, he only nodded and left. The orderly had to double-time it to keep up. Savich knew exactly where the ICU was, he’d been there often enough over the years. He couldn’t help himself, glanced at the man’s name tag and asked, “Did you see her, Malcolm?”

  Malcolm wasn’t deaf to the fear in Agent Savich’s voice. “Yes, Agent, I did. She’s sleeping, not unconscious. There’s a big bandage around her head, so it looks worse than it is. One of the nurses said all her curly hair would cover the stitches over her temple. Is her name really Sherlock? As in the Baskerville Sherlock?”

  “Yes, and surprise, she loves dogs.”

  Malcolm left him in front of a curtained cubicle in the ICU with a small salute. Savich pulled back the curtain to see a nurse fussing over Sherlock, taking her blood pressure, her pulse. She straightened, nodded to him. “You’re her husband, Agent Savich, right?”

  He nodded. “How is she?”

  “Her vitals continue to be in the normal range. I’m hoping she’ll sleep most of the night, even with the frequent checks. If anything worries you tonight, give us a holler.” She shook his hand, nodded to the stingy narrow cot snugged into the small space. “Good luck with that. I’ll see you again soon.”

  Savich stood over Sherlock, simply listening to her slow, even breathing. They’d cleaned the blood off her face and put her in a light blue hospital gown. The bandage around her head was in layers, like a turban. He remembered when she’d been hurt in San Francisco before last Christmas, her head had been covered with layers of white bandages then, too. The leaching fear flooded back, drowning him. He touched his fingertips to her hair, still stiff with dried blood. He looked at the bruises on the top of her shoulder from the seat belt, bruises he knew looked worse than they were. An IV line snaked into her wrist from a bag of liquid, probably saline to keep her hydrated. Nothing they could give her for the concussion. She was pale and still, a lifeless model of herself. It scared him to death. She was always on the move, always ready to take on anything thrown at her. She was vital, a dynamo.

  Savich leaned down, lightly kissed her mouth. He stood by her bed for a very long time.

  5

  * * *

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  She opened her eyes and saw his face again, only inches above hers, beautiful dark intense eyes framed by black eyelashes. She remembered he’d stayed with her, holding her hand, as she was being wheeled—somewhere. He was utterly focused on her. Why did he look worried? Then pain struck inside her head out of nowhere, pain so sharp she gasped. She no longer cared if the angel Gabriel was standing over her, she was only aware of the pounding pain. She tried to raise her hand but felt a hard tug. She saw a needle sticking out of her wrist tethered to tubing.

  What had happened? Where was she? Well, given the needle in her wrist, she was in a hospital, but— Her brain twisted, turned inward, and she no longer cared if she was on Mars. The pain in her head was like nails hammering into a board. She whispered, her voice insubstantial as candle smoke, “My head—it hurts, really hurts. What’s happening?”

  She closed her eyes against the pain, heard him call out, “Nurse, come quickly. She’s awake and in pain.”

  She felt his fingers lightly touch her cheek. “Hold on, help’s coming.” His hand moved to cup her chin, and it distracted her for a moment. His low, deep voice sounded close to her cheek. “The pain only now started?”

  She opened her eyes, closed them again real fast, whispered, “Yes, and it’s bad, like a jungle drum pounding a battle cry.” Raw fear struck through her. She was dying, she couldn’t survive this pain, no one could. She felt his hand squeezing hers. “Hold on,” he said again, “they’ll be here soon to help you.”

  “I’m dying, aren’t I?”

  “No, you’re not dying until the next millennium, then maybe another decade or so after that. Hang on, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart?

  A nurse hurried into the cubicle. “Good, you’re awake. Let’s take care of the pain first. Dr. Loomis expected you might have a bad headache this morning. She left orders for a very nice drug for you, Dilaudid. Not enough to knock you out, we can’t have that. I’m injecting it into your IV right now. Breathe normally. That’s it. You should feel better very quickly, only a couple of minutes.”

  The three of them waited silently. The couple of minutes seemed an eon to Savich, until finally she began to ease.

  The nurse leaned down. “Better? Was there pain anywhere else? Or only your head?”

  Sherlock had enough control to give this some thought. She whispered, “I feel achy, little jabs of pain here and there when I move, mainly in my chest and arms and my shoulder, but that’s better now, too.” She felt another ripple of pain in her head, but it wasn’t nearly as bad. Still, she closed her eyes and lay very still. She whispered, “It’s the oddest thing. I feel like I’m ready to float to the ceiling. Should I hang on to something?”

  Savich took her hand. “I’ve got hold of you. If you float up, I’ll bring you back down. Or maybe I’ll float up with you.”

  “Thank you.” She blinked, opened her eyes. “I know I’m in the hospital. What happened? Did someone mug me?”

  “No. Another driver slammed into you at the intersection of Prior and Williams, and sent the Volvo spinning. You ended up rear-ending a fire hydrant.”

  “The man who hit me, is he all right?”

  “It wasn’t a man. Last I heard she walked away with a sprained arm and bruised leg.”

  “A woman hit me? A woman? But women don’t drive crazy like that.”

  “This one did, for whatever reason.”

  “Did I hurt anyone?”

  “A few people were injured, but not seriously. Don’t worry. We’ll talk more about it later.”

  The nurse said, “That’s right, no more talk about the accident. I’m Joan Marlow, I’ll be taking care of you today. I’ll bet you’re thirsty, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me check you out first, then water.” She took Sherlock’s pulse, listened to her heart, shined a penlight into her eyes, asked her to follow the light to the right, then to the left. She had Sherlock grip her hands and move her legs. She studied her face a moment. “Any nausea?”

  She thought about it, then, “No.”

  “Good. Dizziness?”

  “No, but I’m afraid to move. I feel sort of balanced on the edge and I don’t want to take the chance of falling off.”

  “I understand. Is the pain in your head down to a dull throb now?”

  “Yes, it’s amazing. I’d like a liter of that wonderful drug, please. Maybe a bit more would send me floating right out the window.”

  The nurse laughed. “A lot of people like it, too many like it too much. Now, you get some water, only a bit.” Savich held out his hand and she handed him a plastic cup of cool water with a flexible straw. He moved in close, held it to Sherlock’s mouth. She hesitated a moment before she sucked on the straw. She kept sucking until Nurse Marlow patted his shoulder. “That’s it for right now. You can have a bit more in fifteen minutes.”

  Sherlock closed her eyes a moment. “Thank you.”

  “Any nausea from the water?”

  She opened her eyes, saw her nurse had a comfortable older face, kind eyes. “No nausea. Your name—Joan Marlow. Wasn�
��t she an actress?”

  Joan grinned, patted her arm below a small bandage covering a cut. “Close. You can thank my parents, well, mainly my dad. Now, I promised to call Dr. Loomis when you were awake. She’s already downstairs, on rounds. She should be here shortly.”

  “This is wonderful. I don’t feel any pain at all, but I don’t want to float anymore, I want to snuggle down and sleep for a year.”

  Savich leaned down, lightly kissed her nose. “Don’t go to sleep yet, okay? Wait up for Dr. Loomis. See, you have a magic button to press whenever you want more painkiller.” He closed her hand around a small device, saw her fingers tighten around it, and smiled. He wouldn’t want to let it go, either.

  “If someone tries to take it away, I’ll hurt them.” Was that still her own voice, sounding all low and easy?

  She heard the nurse chuckle. “I don’t blame you.”

  He was holding her hand, his flesh warm. She felt his fingers lightly touch her cheek. “Don’t worry about Sean. I told him last night we were hot on the trail of some bank robbers. I’m sure Gabriella embellished to make us sound really heroic.”

  Such a mesmerizing voice, an actor’s voice, deep and resonant, but his words made no sense. She blinked, focused on his face, licked her lips. “Was I mugged?”

  The nurse said quietly, “Don’t worry, the repetition isn’t uncommon with a concussion. She might ask this same question again until her brain sorts things out.”

  And so he said, “No, you weren’t mugged, you were in a car accident,” and repeated what he’d told her before, adding, “I’m sorry, but your Volvo’s totaled. Do you remember anything that happened?”