How had they found her so quickly?
“By gawd, ma’am, that was good, real good. You got the sumbitch—pardon my Italian—I saw a brief glimpse of him holding his sorry arm and running away as fast as he could.”
“Call me Rachael,” she said as she ran to Roy Bob’s phone and dialed 911. The dispatcher Mort asked her to state her emergency. She nearly laughed. She sucked it in and asked for Agent Savich. He wasn’t there ... wait a minute, he and the sheriff just walked in.
“Hello? Savich here.”
Rachael shouted into the phone, “A guy tried to kill us! Roy Bob’s place, hurry!”
When Sheriff Hollyfield, Savich, and Sherlock came running, every deputy in Parlow racing behind them, she yelled, “He’s in a black Ford pickup—that way! The first three letters on his license plate are F-T-E!” She wanted to go with them, but the last thing they needed was to haul along a civilian with an empty Remington. It was hard, but she stood still and watched them take off after him.
Sheriff Hollyfield yelled, “I saw that wuss car you’re driving. Take my Chevy, it’ll get you anywhere,” and he tossed the keys to Savich. He looked after them, and sighed. He turned to look at Roy Bob and Rachael. Roy Bob was holding his arm, his eyes nearly whirling in his head, not from pain but from excitement. And Rachael looked pretty pumped herself. Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Roy Bob, that was fine shooting. You said you shot him in the arm?”
“No,” said Roy Bob, “it wasn’t me.”
The sheriff’s left eyebrow arched as he looked at Rachael. “Sorry, that’s my bib overalls talking. All right, you shot him. Tell me exactly what happened.”
She laughed, couldn’t help herself. “That was funny.”
“Yeah, well.” The sheriff was embarrassed he’d been sexist, and it calmed her, even made her smile a bit. She said, “Roy Bob and I were discussing how speedily he could get my car fixed when a bullet whizzed by our heads. Roy Bob would have shot him, but he got hurt, as you can see. I crawled to his office, got the rifle, and shot the guy. Fact is, Sheriff, he could have run in and shot us both dead, but he didn’t. Maybe he was afraid Roy Bob had a gun handy and so he waited and shot from the bay door.”
“I didn’t realize,” Roy Bob said, still riding so high on adrenaline he couldn’t hold still, didn’t even pay any attention to the blood still dripping between his fingers and down his arm, “it was bullets. Then there was another shot and she pulled me down behind those Goodyears. The guy kept shooting, I got hit in the arm with a piece of concrete, and Rachael crawled into my office and got Daddy’s Remington. Boy she knows how to use a rifle, good as my grandpa, and she stood right up and fired, hit the bastard—pardon my Russian— her first shot. She fired again but he was moving fast so she missed.” He paused for a moment, grinned real big. “Would you marry me, Rachael? I don’t want Ellie, she can’t shoot worth spit.” He paused, looked down, and paled. “Oh, dude, I’ve got blood running down my arm.”
Rachael tore the sleeve from Roy Bob’s shirt and wrapped it around his arm. “It’s nearly stopped bleeding, you’ll be okay.” She thought of her Charger and knew it was all over, she’d have to leave it here.
“And you, Miss Abercrombie? How’re you doing?”
“I’m purely fine, just fine.” She felt flushed with victory, lit up like a neon sign. “I got him, Sheriff, I got him.”
“You shoot often with a rifle, Miss Abercrombie?”
“Not for a long time. It’s nice that you don’t seem to forget. It felt natural, you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. So you were raised around guns?”
“Where I was raised, everyone knew how to shoot and shoot well.”
“I see. And where was that?”
Roy Bob burst out before she had to come up with a believable answer, “A Remington as old as my daddy, I haven’t seen anybody so smooth with that sucker since Grandpappy died back before the turn of the new century.” He beamed at Rachael, not a single bit of macho irritation showing in his proud face. He added, “And would you look at how pretty she is, Sheriff. Can you imagine how good our kids would shoot and what they’d look like doing it?”
The sheriff wanted to laugh, hut instead he turned a dark eye on Roy Bob. “So someone waltzes right in here and starts shooting. You gambling again, Roy Bob? You stupid enough to take on old Mr. Pratt after what he did to you last fall? You know he explodes like a firecracker.”
Roy Bob drew himself up. “No, sir. I haven’t gambled since Ellie walked out on me. I’ve been too depressed, just sitting home, beer and baseball my only pleasures.”
The sheriff sighed. “All right then, Roy Bob, Deputy Glenda is going to help you over to the clinic.”
“No, Sheriff, not Deputy Glenda, she’s not too pleased with me right now. Besides, I ain’t no wuss, I can get there under my own steam. Hey, Rachael, I’m thinking you look familiar.”
“That’s because I shoot well,” she said, and poked him in his good arm.
The sheriff said, “Okay, Roy Bob, you go on over, see Dr. Post. As for you, Miss Abercrombie, I need you to come back to the office with me and we’ll talk this all over, you can give me a formal statement. Hopefully Agent Savich and Sherlock will bring this fellow down.”
“Roy Bob, about my car—”
“You gonna hurt my other arm if I don’t fix your fuel pump right away, Rachael?”
Rachael pointed gun fingers at him. “I just might. Then you might think I look like your mother.”
Roy Bob laughed, then moaned as he jerked his arm. “I’ll get to it then.”
But not in time. Now, how was she to get away from Sheriff Hollyfield?
The sheriff turned to see his youngest, greenest deputy come running into the bay.
Deputy Theodore Osgood, called Tooth because one of his front teeth was chipped half off, just turned twenty-one, was big, beefy, and panting. He wheezed out, “That guy in the black truck—he nearly hit old Mrs. Crump—missed her, but scared her so bad she fell into a hydrant. We’re getting her over to the clinic.”
Rachael wasn’t listening. She was thinking, He’ll get away, monsters always get away. Two and a half days since they’d tossed her into Black Rock Lake tied to a concrete block. Didn’t matter how they knew she was here, they’d found her, and now things were critical. She had to get out of Parlow, now. She had to get to Slipper Hollow.
But how? ELEVEN
The sheriff was right, Savich thought as he sped the powerful Chevy to Judge Hardesty’s airfield. Bobby, their pilot, was sitting beneath a pine tree, puffing on a pipe, reading a Juan Cabrillo adventure.
He had them in the air in under five minutes.
Sherlock said into her headphones, “I bet he’s going to head back to the main highway, Bobby. He needs traffic to get lost in, and he’s not going to find it on this road.”
Savich said, “Agreed. We’re looking for a black Ford pickup, the first three letters of the license plate are F-T-E.”
Bobby swung the helicopter in a tight circle and headed toward the junction of 72 and 75.
Sherlock said as she scanned the highway below, “He’s also hurt, shot in the arm, so depending on how bad it is, he might drive erratically, maybe pass out, but there’s no way he’d stop.”
Bobby cruised at three hundred feet over the highway. Savich said, “Let’s not go any lower yet. People have seen enough attack helicopters in movies. We don’t want anyone to freak, cause an accident. Okay, traffic is getting heavier.”
Five minutes later Sherlock said, “There—there he is. He just turned off 75 onto a parallel access road. He’s in and out of sight, with all those trees canopying the road, and he’s having to go real slow what with all the ruts.”
Savich said, “You sure?”
“Yep, the license plate begins with F-T-E,” Sherlock shouted.
“Continue on about five miles, Bobby, then bring us down. Sherlock, make sure he stays on the access road.”
She grinned at him, ga
ve him a thumbs-up.
The landscape was littered with dense clusters of oaks and pines, and rolling hills between higher peaks. About six miles up the road, Bobby brought them down not more than fifty feet from the access road. Savich and Sherlock jumped out of the helicopter, bent low, and ran toward the road.
Only seven minutes passed before they heard the Ford coming. SIGs drawn, they stood in the shadow of a trio of skinny pine trees.
When the truck was beside them, Savich fired three bullets into the front passenger-side tire and Sherlock blew out the back tire. When the truck swerved to a stop, Savich yelled, “Federal agents! Come on out now, easy!”
The driver’s-side door opened slowly. A man yelled, “I’m coming out, don’t shoot me!”
“Lock your hands behind your neck,” Savich shouted. He couldn’t see the man clearly, but he did see one hand go up to grasp his neck. That was okay, Rachael had shot him in the other arm. Then, so fast Savich barely had time to react, the man raised a pistol and fired off six fast rounds over the top of the hood. Savich fired back even as he hit the ground and rolled.
The man ducked behind the door, and Savich shoved a new magazine into his SIG and came up to his knees behind a big maple. He saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye making her way around the back of the truck. She looked back once to see that he was all right, then crouched down and ran.
Keep his attention on me. Savich shouted, “All right, you’ve had your go at me. You missed. There’ll be six cop cars here in about a minute. Do you want to die here? If so, then keep firing at me and I’ll oblige you. If not, throw your gun onto the road so I can see it. Now!”
Aeons passed, perhaps ten seconds, before the man finally called out, “All right, I’m coming out. Don’t shoot!”
Sherlock pressed her SIG against the back of his neck.
“Drop it now. Don’t even twitch or you’re a dead man.”
The man jerked in surprise, then dropped the gun at her feet.
“Glad to see you’re not a complete moron. Dillon, I’ve got him.”
Savich came around the front of the truck, his SIG trained on the man’s chest.
Sherlock pulled off the man’s sunglasses.
They stared into the eyes of a man whose face was gray with pain. “Rachael got you good, didn’t she?” Sherlock said.
He moved quickly, a small derringer in his hand, and grabbed Sherlock. But Savich was faster. He shot the man in the forearm of his gun hand.
The man screamed, the derringer went flying, and he dropped like a stone at Sherlock’s feet. He wasn’t unconscious, but his breathing was hard and strained. He was moaning, holding his forearm. He’d tied a dirty oil rag around his other arm. Savich picked up the derringer. “You were fast.”
“But not fast enough,” Sherlock said, and kicked him in the ribs.
“Bitch,” the man whispered.
“Yeah, that’s what all you losers say,” Sherlock said and went down on her knees to handcuff his wrists in front of him. She gave him a handkerchief. “Here, put some pressure on your forearm. You okay, Dillon?”
“No problem.” He wasn’t about to tell her his heart had dropped to his heels when the guy pulled out that derringer.
Sherlock said, “I can’t wait to find out who this moron is. Hey, buddy, you got a name for us?”
He mumbled something, still enough anger and venom in him to hear in his words.
“I don’t think that’s anatomically possible,” Sherlock said, and gave him another light kick with the toe of her boot.
Savich said, “Who trained you? You have been trained. You’re for hire, right?”
The man didn’t say anything, only moaned and pressed the handkerchief against his forearm. Savich dug into the man’s pockets but only came up with half a pack of sugarless gum and a Swiss Army knife.
Sherlock said, “You were afraid we’d catch you so you tossed out your wallet, didn’t you? Well, that’s the only thing you got right today. I bet you stole this truck, too, didn’t you? But you know, jerk-face, I’ll bet you’ve got priors, so you’re in the system. We’ll know all about you in no time at all.”
Forty-five minutes later, the man was in surgery at Franklin County Hospital, two floors down from where Dr. Timothy MacLean lay in a coma.
Sherlock called Sheriff Hollyfield’s office, spoke to Jack, told him to keep Rachael close. She and Savich met Dr. Hallick in Dr. MacLean’s room.
Savich and Sherlock had never met Dr. Timothy MacLean, had only seen photos of him. Jack had spoken of his kindness, his wit, his extraordinary insights, his empathy. MacLean and Jack’s dad were friends from way back, and the families had always known each other. MacLean had once played a mean game of tennis, and had one grandchild by his second daughter. They both looked down silently at his waxy gray face. With all the tubes that tethered him to life, they wondered if there was any way he could pull through. He looked withered, a decade older than his forty-nine years.
Dr. Hallick listened to Dr. MacLean’s heart, took his pulse, then straightened. “We almost had to put him on a respirator when his breathing became erratic. Strange thing is, there is no obvious trauma to his brain on the MRI, except perhaps some slight edema. Bottom line, we don’t know why Dr. MacLean isn’t awake. The fact is, the brain is still something of a mystery to us.
“What we did notice was atrophy—shrinkage—of the front lobes of his brain. Your colleague Agent Crowne called me and helped us get in touch with his doctors at Duke University Unfortunately for Dr. MacLean, they’d concluded he has frontal lobe dementia, even before this happened. It’s a hell of a thing, a man as distinguished as Dr. MacLean, losing his mind so early.”
Sherlock said, “Yes, we were aware of that, Doctor. Could Dr. MacLean’s frontal lobe dementia be contributing to his not waking up?”
“Unlikely, but according to Dr. Kelly, our neurologist, there’s very little experience with that question.” He shrugged. “Nothing more to be done except to wait and see. He’s got two broken ribs and a gash on his chest we’ve sutured and will need to keep an eye on.”
As for their shooter, he was still in surgery. They’d taken his fingerprints before he’d gone in and they’d find out soon who he was. Neither Savich nor Sherlock had a doubt he was in the database.
When they walked out of Dr. MacLean’s room, they saw Sheriff Hollyfield leaning against the opposite wall. He’d changed out of his bib overalls and into black slacks, a white shirt, a wool jacket, and boots. He was a slender man, fit, with a pleasant face and dark eyes that had the awareness and intensity shared by most cops. “What do they say about Dr. MacLean? Is he going to make it?”
“It’s complicated,” Savich said. “Hey, I miss your other duds.”
“Yeah, that’s what Jack said. Listen, Agent Savich, I do complicated real good. Why don’t you call me Dougie?”
Savich looked at him. “I can’t.”
Sheriff Hollyfield grinned. “Yeah, I understand.”
“But Dougie went real well with the bib overalls,” Sherlock said.
“Yeah, yeah, why don’t we have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and you can tell me what’s going on with this guy. Jack and Rachael are both okay, so don’t worry about them. I had to leave them in Parlow since Jack still wasn’t looking too hot. I got the impression, though, that he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. They went back to the B&B.”
While Savich sipped his tea, the sheriff said, “Before I left Jack and Rachael to drive up here, Tommy Jerkins, your FBI expert, reported in. He found remnants of an explosive—Semtex, he thinks—but the detonator malfunctioned, didn’t set off all the plastic explosive.
“After the wheels hit the ground, the fuel exploded the rest of the Semtex. Tommy said Jack is a very lucky man. Even without the bomb detonating, the Cessna was disabled enough to send him right into the mountains.
“Given how inaccessible the mountains are, even if the bomb had blown them out of the sky, the chances are Sea
rch and Rescue wouldn’t have found enough of either of them or the wreckage to determine anything. It probably would have been deemed pilot error.
“Jack said he was going to miss that plane,” the sheriff continued. “He told me she’s gotten him out of a few tight spots. I told him a wreath might help.”
Sherlock said, “The person behind this murder attempt will come after Dr. MacLean again. This was his third try, no reason he’ll stop now.
“Maybe he’ll come after Jack, as well, if he assumes Dr. MacLean told Jack about a patient’s illegal activities, maybe even where to find proof.”
Savich said, “Our lab will examine what’s left of the bomb and the Semtex, see if they can tell where it’s from. Our people in Lexington are all over the private section of the airport, questioning everyone. Somebody had to see something.”
Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Jack said Dr. MacLean didn’t tell him any specifics like that. And that’s when Jack said he wasn’t capable. I asked him how that was possible, and he said Dr. MacLean didn’t remember.”
Sheriff Hollyfield looked suddenly very tough. “Anyone going to explain this to me?”
Sharp and clean, Savich thought, that was Sheriff Hollyfield’s brain. He looked over at Sherlock. She nodded. Savich said, “Dr. MacLean has an increasingly debilitating brain disorder called frontal lobe dementia. The prognosis for anyone who’s unlucky enough to get it isn’t good.”
“Dementia? But this man isn’t old.”
“No, he’s not,” Sherlock said. “Frontal lobe dementia can strike middle-aged people.”
“What are his symptoms?”
Savich said, “The disease reduces his inhibitions, makes him say and do uncharacteristic things—like telling the minister after church services that he’s a sanctimonious prig, telling a woman she looks fat, attacking a guy for eyeing his wife—social gaffes like that. Sometimes he remembers saying these things, sometimes he doesn’t. If he does remember, he tends to dismiss them, doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with saying them.
“As his disease has progressed, Dr. MacLean has started telling tales about his famous patients, even to his tennis partner. Privileged doctor/patient exchanges. Again, he doesn’t necessarily remember what he’s divulged, and if he does remember, he doesn’t think it’s any big deal.
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