“No problem, Sheriff,” Wade said, and walked over to where Beau still lay on his back, rain splashing off his face.
“He won’t be causing any more trouble. As for that van, we can’t get close yet, it’s still burning too hot.”
“The guy inside was Clancy,” Katie said. “Call the fire department, have Chief Hayes come out here and clean up the mess.”
Keely called out, “Mama, you take care of Uncle Dillon.”
“What?”
“That’s Agent Savich,” Miles said.
“I will, Keely, don’t worry.” So many new people in her life in a very short time, and one of them hurt because of her. She jumped into the back of the ambulance, closed the doors, and settled herself in. “I’m set. Let’s go, guys.”
Mackey had Savich propped up on his side and Bueller had unbuttoned his shirt and scissored his undershirt open down the front so he could attach the EKG monitors. He said to Savich, “We’ll let the doctor take care of getting the clothes off that wound. Just a moment more, Agent, sir, and you’ll be better. It’s important to keep you still now.”
Savich grunted.
When they at last settled him on his stomach, Mackey slipped oxygen clips into his nostrils. “That should feel a bit better.”
It did, thank the good Lord.
“Just a little nip here in the arm, Agent,” Mackey said. “I’m going to start an IV.”
Mackey got it on the first try, for which Savich was grateful.
“Now, Agent, sir, we’re going to apply a little more pressure to the wound,” Mackey said. “You just try breathing as normally as you can and hold still.”
When Savich had the pain controlled, he opened his eyes to see the sheriff on her knees beside him, holding his hand, which was hanging off the side of the gurney. Katie saw his control. He was a strong man, not just physically. She said, “Thank you for saving my life, Agent Savich.”
“It’s Dillon. You’re welcome. You didn’t have to come in the ambulance. There’s lots to do back at your house.”
“Oh, yes I did.” She smiled at him and kept stroking his hand. She said after a moment, “I should have realized that where there’s smoke—”
“Gasoline was leaking out, and the heat was building up fast. I just didn’t know how long it would be before it blew. A little more time would have been nice, though.”
“I wonder if that could happen with my big Vortec V8 engine.”
Savich couldn’t help himself, he smiled through the god-awful pain. If she’d come along to distract him she was doing a good job. “Yeah, it could even happen with that engine.”
Katie said, seeing that reaction, “She’s got three hundred horses at forty-four hundred rpm. Isn’t that something?”
“She?”
“My truck. I know she’s female. She just doesn’t have a name.”
“Three hundred horses, yeah, that’s something, all right.”
His eyes closed a moment; it was time for her to move on, time to get serious here. She said, “My mom told me once that learning lessons always hurt, only this time you took the hit for me. I owe you, Dillon. You saved my life.”
“Everything’s looking good, Agent, sir,” Mackey said. “Your EKG’s A-okay, and the bleeding’s nearly stopped. I’m sorry we can’t give you anything for the pain. You hanging in there?”
“I’m hanging in,” Savich said. “Katie, would you please call my wife in Washington, D.C.? She’s not much into truck engines, though, so you might not want to go there.”
Katie pulled out her cell phone from the T-shirt pocket beneath her wet sweatshirt. “I could teach her.”
He smiled. That was good.
“Okay, give me the number.”
Savich closed his eyes as he gave her the phone number, to keep the moan in his throat.
“What’s her name?”
“Sherlock.”
Katie guessed he wasn’t kidding about her name. One ring, two, then “Hello? Dillon, is that you? What’s going on? Are you all right? What about Sam—”
“I’m calling for your husband, Mrs. Savich,” Katie said, and automatically lowered her voice to make it soothing and calm. “I’m Sheriff K. C. Benedict calling from Jessborough, in eastern Tennessee. Your husband asked me to call you, ma’am. Let me assure you that he’s all right, Mrs. Savich. He—”
“Put Dillon on, please, Sheriff.”
Katie held the phone to his ear.
Savich drew a deep breath, hoping he was wiping all the damnable pain out of his voice. Sherlock could hear the smallest sound; she could even hear Sean’s breathing change before he hollered. “Sherlock? It’s me. No, no, I’m okay, just a little problem. Yes, we got Sam back. He’s fine. So is Miles. What little problem? Well, you see this van blew up and I was a bit too close to it. I got hit in the back by some flying metal.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the pain trying to draw him in. He really wanted to give in to it, but he wasn’t about to scare Sherlock out of her wits.
Katie simply took the cell and said, “Mrs. Savich, he’s going to be okay. We’re on our way to Johnson City Medical Center. Your husband will be all right. I’m not lying to you. I will stay with him. Don’t worry.”
Savich managed to say “Tell her not to come here” before his brain swam away.
He heard the sheriff talking, but he didn’t know if she was still speaking to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock was scared. If he’d gotten a call like this about her he would freak himself. He saw the sheriff lift her wet sweatshirt and slip the small bright blue cell phone back into the T-shirt pocket.
He couldn’t seem to stop looking at that cell phone even after she’d pulled the sweatshirt back down over it. Blue, it was a bright blue, ridiculous, really, but on the other hand, she’d never lose it. Blue for cops. He liked that. He closed his eyes, wanting very much to control the blasted pain. He could picture the sharp slice in his back, not an appetizing image. He really wished Sherlock were here even though he’d asked her not to come. Of course she’d be here as soon as humanly possible.
He was vaguely aware that Katie was speaking in a slow deep voice. “—my truck also has stainless-steel exhaust manifolds.”
Manifolds?
“And a high-capacity crankshaft that’s internally balanced. That reduces stress on the crankshaft, don’t you know. Did I tell you it was raining so hard this afternoon that I could barely see ten feet in front of me, even though I have the remarkable high-speed and twice-as-thick grade F windshield wipers on my truck?”
He wanted to laugh and she saw it.
But Savich didn’t hear any more after that, just sounds that were soothing, as she was used to speaking to someone who was hurt or not quite with it. Like him.
He didn’t rouse his brain until they were in the hospital emergency room and a nurse came forward and directed the four men to lift him from the gurney onto one of the narrow beds.
He heard the nurse speaking to the paramedics, heard Bueller give her a report on what had happened, heard the nurse greet the sheriff. She checked his IV and began cutting off his clothes. “Goodness, you’re dirty, Agent Savich. Not to worry, we’ll clean you up. You just keep holding on to his hand, Sheriff.”
“It’s too bad,” he said. “Sherlock just got me these slacks.”
“They’re sexy,” the nurse said, “but they’ve got to go, Agent Savich. Just stay still, Dr. Able will be here in a second to examine you.”
He heard Katie’s voice and focused on it as the nurse checked his blood pressure, took off the old EKG patches, and put on her own.
Katie said, “My truck has two cup holders in her center console, great for the kids.”
“My car doesn’t have even one cup holder,” Savich said. He felt cold wet cloths cleaning the mud from his legs. He wasn’t cold even though he was naked, and that was odd. “I’d like to have one,” he said, frowning a bit.
He was almost with her again. She said, “What kind of wheels do you have
?”
“A Porsche.”
“I should have known, a hotshot guy like you.”
He wanted to chuckle, but it was beyond him. The nurse was talking to Katie, giving her his wallet and keys, and pulling a sheet up to his waist.
“Did you see Wade, my chief deputy? I just wish he didn’t want my job so badly,” Katie said, and he heard the frown in her voice. “That means I can’t trust him one hundred percent, and that’s too bad. But I guess you have to take the good with the bad, don’t you?”
“Kick Wade’s butt out of Tennessee or one day you’ll find yourself sabotaged but good.”
“I will surely think about that, Dillon. Thank you.”
“Agent Savich? I’m Dr. Able. Don’t move now. I see Linda’s got you all cleaned up. You’ve got no other wounds, just the one across your back. The EKG looks fine. You seem to be pretty stable, and that’s good. Now, I’m going to give you some morphine for the pain and examine your back.”
Savich looked at the dark-faced man with tobacco-stained teeth leaning over him and wondered how a doctor could begin to justify smoking to himself. He wanted to tell him smoking was nuts. He wanted to tell him that he didn’t want morphine, that he didn’t want to lose himself, but maybe it would be good if he checked out for a while. He felt Dr. Able fiddling with the IV line they’d started in the ambulance. Savich hoped he knew what he was doing.
“Let’s wait just a moment for the morphine to kick in,” Dr. Able said. “I’m going to draw some blood, see what’s going on, okay? Also we need to type and cross you. I’d say that with this wound you might be a quart low.”
Savich wanted to smile because that was funny, but he could only manage a nod. He just couldn’t do any more than that. He felt Katie stroking the back of his hand, and he focused on that.
As Dr. Able slipped a needle into his vein to draw blood, he said, “Sheriff, I understand there’ve been two fatalities?”
“Yes, Clyde. And I was almost the third. The only reason Agent Savich is hurt is because he saved my life. He tackled and flattened me in the mud when the kidnappers’ van exploded. I know I look bad, but it’s all on the outside. Don’t come near me with any of your needles, my innards are just fine.”
“Thank you, Agent Savich, for saving her neck. We need Katie. Linda said you were a mess, but not any longer. Nasty weather out there.”
Savich didn’t answer, didn’t ever want to move again. Then the morphine kicked in and it was like someone had pulled the monster’s teeth out of his flesh.
“There, we’ve got the blood.” Savich felt a pat on his arm. “Just lie still, Agent Savich. Here’s a pillow against your stomach to keep you up on your side. Another couple minutes, then we’ll see what we’ve got. Katie, how is the little boy?”
“Sam’s just fine. He and my daughter are probably out in the waiting room with Sam’s father, Miles Kettering. He and Agent Savich flew from Colfax, Virginia, into Ackerman’s Air Field. I’ll tell you, Clyde, given the winds out there, that’s quite an accomplishment.”
Everyone speaks so freely. Will she even tell him we flew in a Cessna?
“An accomplishment or just plain stupid. All right now, Agent Savich, let’s see just how bad this is.”
The pain was a low throb, nothing more, thanks to the morphine. Only thing was, his head was emptying out and he couldn’t bring himself to care a great deal about anything, himself included.
He didn’t realize he’d been gone until he heard Katie say, “Dr. Able doesn’t think it looks too bad. It’s a real clean slice but not deep, thank God.”
“We’re going to take you to the procedure room, Agent Savich, not the OR. It’s just on the other side of the emergency room. It’s nice and sterile and quiet. Katie, you can stay with him, but first you’re going to have to jump in the shower. Then put on scrubs and a mask, and those cute little booties for your feet.”
She patted his hand. “Don’t worry, Dillon, I’ll be right back.”
“They’ll let you in this procedure room?”
“Since you’re special, they’ll allow it this time. Now, I’m going to go get hosed down. Until I get back to you, I want you to think about that really neat coolant loss protection on my truck.”
Ten minutes later, thoroughly scrubbed, Katie settled herself down beside Savich, and picked up his hand. It was a nice hand, strong and tanned, with short buffed nails. She remembered that Carlo’s hands were like that, powerful and strong. A pity that her former husband’s character hadn’t matched his hands. False advertising all around. Good riddance to him.
Savich heard a mellow baritone singing “Those Were the Days,” and saw Dr. Able’s face leaning over him.
10
Here’s what we’re going to do, Agent Savich,” Dr. Able said, his minty breath wafting over Savich’s face. “We’re not going to put you under. We’re going to give you what we call conscious sedation. That means Linda here will inject some morphine and Versed into your IV. It’ll keep you comfortable and sleepy. I’m now going to give you some local anesthetic. All right?”
“All right,” Savich said. They’d slid him from the gurney onto his stomach on a narrow bed, a sheet to his waist.
Savich didn’t feel pain, just Dr. Able’s fingers probing the wound. He wanted to hear more about the sheriff’s truck or maybe even hear Dr. Able sing some more, but words wouldn’t form in his brain, and so he just lay there, enduring. He wished he was with Sherlock, maybe playing with those fat rollers in her hair.
Dr. Able talked as he worked. “Nothing vital seems to be cut, just your skin and a bit of muscle. You’re going to hurt a while, not be able to lie on your back for up to a week, but all in all, you’re a very lucky man, Agent Savich. It could have been worse, much worse, and I’m sure you know that. Okay, I’m going to set the stitches in layers now—the deep ones, and then the surface stitches. This will take a few minutes.”
Savich didn’t feel any pain, just the dragging pull of the thread through his flesh, an obscene feeling he hated.
“You married, Agent Savich?”
Savich wasn’t up to even a yes or no answer and Katie saw it. “Yes, he is, Clyde. I have a feeling his wife is going to show up here even though he told her not to come.”
“Women,” said Dr. Able, “if only they were more like trucks—nice and predictable; you floorboard ’em and they go, right where you tell ’em to.”
“Yeah, I can see what you mean, Clyde,” Katie said. “Not only that, you buy a truck, pay for it, and that’s it. But with women, you gotta pay and pay—and don’t forget the interest.”
“Oh yeah? What about the maintenance?”
“Lots more than your truck’ll ever need.”
Dr. Able laughed hard and Savich was very relieved not to hear him say “Oops.”
He heard their voices, but still felt no particular pain, just the slow pulling of the thread through his flesh; his mind, what was left of it, drifted back to the interviews he’d had yesterday with the husbands of the two slain high school math teachers. It was odd, but their faces blurred together, and he had trouble telling them apart. Then his own face blurred over the both of them.
Troy Ward, tears in his voice, said, “My wife has been dead for six days, Agent Savich, the police don’t have a clue who did it, so how do you think I feel? I’ve told them everything I know, including my mother’s social security number.”
Savich nodded. He didn’t particularly like Troy Ward, the overweight sports announcer. “The thing is, Mr. Ward, the FBI is involved now—”
“Yeah, I’ve heard all about you big boobs waltzing in and taking over. And now the TV’s screaming that it’s a serial killer. God, we don’t need another one. That last one still gives me nightmares.”
“No, we don’t need another one. But I really need to know . . .”
Savich’s brain floated away, and when he managed to snag some of it back again, Troy Ward seemed more overweight now than he had been just an instant bef
ore. “Mr. Ward, have you spoken to Mr. Fowler?”
“The other murdered woman’s husband? No, I haven’t. Two grown men sitting together sobbing, it wouldn’t play well in the football locker room, now, would it? Can’t you just see the guys laughing their heads off? No, not much point to that.”
What did football have to do with grieving? “Did you play football, Mr. Ward? Is that how you got into announcing?”
“You making a joke, Agent Savich? Let me tell you, I wasn’t always this big, and I tried out, but I never got past high school ball. They were a bunch of macho assholes anyway.” He jumped to his feet, his three chins wobbling, and screamed, “I wanted to get in the locker room!”
Savich said when that scream died away, “I played football.”
“Well, yeah, I can tell by looking at you. I’ll just bet you had girls hanging off your biceps, didn’t you, you brainless jock?”
That wasn’t very nice of him to say, Savich was thinking, but then Troy Ward had a microphone in front of his mouth and he was screaming, “Go, you macho jock jerks! Run!” He yelled in Savich’s face, “It’s a touchdown! You see that, a touchdown!”
Savich said, “You never met Mr. Gifford Fowler or Leslie Fowler, his wife?”
Now Savich wanted to lie down on this big soft sofa and just listen to the soft rain falling against the front windows of Troy Ward’s very nice house in an excellent area of Oxford, Maryland. “Nope, I already told the police I’d never heard of them. I don’t think my wife, Bernie, knew Leslie Fowler either, never mentioned her name or anything, not that Bernie and I ever talked about other women all that much. She wasn’t worried about me playing around on her, said I was a really bad liar and she’d know.” He paused, then tears oozed out of his eyes, falling into the deep creases on his double chin. “I want you to catch the maniac who killed Bernie!” Then he threw back his head and yelled to the ceiling, “I want to be a jock asshole!”
Troy Ward was suddenly standing over him, his hand extended. “Do you want a rice cake? I’m trying to lose some weight, gotta get back into shape, you know, because, who knows, the Ravens might make the playoffs and I’ll be all front and center with the players. I may be doing some locker room interviews with the guys.” But he wasn’t holding a rice cake out to Savich, it was a huge Krispy Kreme the size of an inner-tube swing. Savich backed away from the doughnut and Troy Ward, that officious little sod of an overweight sports announcer, blurred into the tall gaunt features of Gifford Fowler, the car dealer, who was talking right in his face. “You want to buy one of my Chevys? I’ve been selling Chevys right here for the last twenty-two years! I’m solid, they’re solid. Like a Rock! Hey? Just like the commercial. Whatcha think, Agent Savich?”
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 67
