Backfire

by Catherine Coulter

  Dr. Kardak pursed his lips. “I’m going to mention that to one of my shrink friends.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s a practicing Freudian therapist. I shudder to think what he’ll have to say.” He studied Sherlock for a moment longer. “Very well, if nothing unexpected shows up, you may go home, but you’re to rest, let everyone wait on you. You are not to bake even the sweet-potato casserole, you understand me?”

  Sherlock nodded. “I won’t even make my sausage stuffing. Promise.”

  “You may, however, eat as much as you want.” He pulled the curtain open and nodded toward Ramsey. “As for Judge Dredd here, he gets to enjoy our hospitality for a while longer. I understand there’s to be a Thanksgiving feast here in the room tomorrow. The floor staff can’t talk about much else. The chef told my assistant he was even preparing a surprise for your dinner. I’m thinking I might drop by, see if there are any leftovers. Maybe watch one of the football games.”

  When he left ten minutes later, Sherlock heard Dillon speaking to Dr. Kardak outside in the hall. When Dillon came into the room, he was smiling and carrying two cups of coffee. Sherlock held her arms out to him.

  San Francisco General Hospital

  Wednesday morning

  Molly sat beside her sleeping husband, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. He looked thin, she thought, even with all the extra meals the nurses brought in for him. He wasn’t eating enough, despite their efforts. It was the pain and dependence and niggling fear, she imagined, fear for her, and for Emma, and for the boys.

  Molly laid her cheek against his shoulder and wondered for the dozenth time who the man was who had shot him. Who hated him, and Dillon, so much?

  At least Sherlock was going home after her brain scan. Molly looked at the big hand of the clock on the wall. Sherlock would be back soon. Deputy Marshal Ray Rozan was with her, her Kevlar vest, Sherlock called him. As for Savich, he hadn’t budged an inch from her side until the phone call. The call was short. When he’d punched off his cell, he’d looked at his wife and she’d told him with no hesitation, “Go. I’ll be fine with Deputy Rozan.” That was it. Molly knew the call had to be urgent to make him leave Sherlock. She admired Sherlock’s restraint. She hadn’t asked him what had happened, and he hadn’t said a thing.

  Molly thought Sherlock looked perfectly fine to go home when they’d helped her into a wheelchair for her CT scan. Having all the dried blood washed out of her hair and the clunky bandage replaced with a strip of plastic tape had made a huge difference.

  Molly looked toward Officer Lamar Marks standing beside the window, staring down into the parking lot. Was he thinking about Thanksgiving tomorrow? She knew he wasn’t on duty tomorrow, since he had three kids and a truckload of relatives coming to his house. Another SFPD officer had volunteered. He’d eat very well for it, she thought, smiling.

  But maybe Officer Marks was thinking about the same thing Molly was: There were two separate killers. It was difficult to accept that that could be possible, yet everyone had always wondered, Why would Xu shoot Ramsey?

  “Molly?”

  She looked up to see Dillon standing in the doorway.

  “Sherlock’s still getting her tests?”

  She replied in a whisper, “She should be back soon, Dillon; that’s what the nurse told me. Ramsey’s sleeping, which is excellent. What happened? Who called you?”

  He smiled at her shotgun questions, motioned for her to join him at the door. “A Chinese physician was found murdered early this morning in his office in Sausalito. There was ample evidence Xu had been there yesterday. We understand the doctor closed his office that afternoon, sent everyone home. Xu was probably there already, demanding treatment. Given all the blood in the examining room, Xu was in bad shape.” He paused for a moment. “Dr. Mulan Chu was a primary-care doctor that Xu knew somehow. Perhaps he’d treated Xu before. It’s a pity Xu got to the doctor before he got the warning we were sending out.”

  Molly said, “Why would Xu murder the doctor who’d saved his life, a doctor he knew?”

  “We’re thinking Chu found out what Xu had done at the Fairmont. Virginia said there’d been a call from his number to the police department asking to speak to someone about the Fairmont fire, but the caller hung up. We’re thinking Xu overheard Dr. Chu dialing the cops, and that’s why he killed him.”

  Ramsey said from behind them, “Do you think Xu is out of control, Savich?”

  Savich and Molly walked back to Ramsey’s bedside. Savich said, “No, I don’t. I think he did what he believed he had to do to save himself. I think all Xu wants is to get out of Dodge, and he’s doing whatever he has to do to accomplish that. He’s not insane or going on some sort of mad killing spree. Not that it matters to Dr. Chu or his family.”

  Savich looked over at Officer Lamar Marks, who looked like he’d been punched in the face. Savich knew exactly how he felt, since he’d felt the same way when Delion had first told him. Officer Marks said, “Xu better hope all he needs is this one doctor visit.”

  True enough, Savich thought.

  Officer Marks said, “He could still end up in an emergency room somewhere.”

  Ramsey said, “Lamar’s right. If he’s that bad off, then he’ll need more medical attention.”

  Molly said, “Even if he can weather through it, Xu could still be stuck in bed for another week, Dillon.” She brightened. “Maybe he could die.”

  “He’s certainly lost enough blood. Dr. Chu couldn’t have transfused him in his office.”

  Officer Marks said, “No one saw him at the doctor’s office? No other staff, patients, passersby?”

  “We have nothing so far. We do know Xu went to Dr. Chu’s clinic within an hour of his getting shot. The ME estimated Dr. Chu was dead within a couple of hours after that.”

  “I wonder where Xu is holed up now?” Officer Marks said.

  Savich heard some voices in the corridor behind him and quickly turned. He expected Sherlock, but it was a couple of orderlies. Where was Sherlock?

  Savich bolted from the room and ran to the nurses’ station.

  Sherlock was tapping her fingers. Why in heaven did everything take so long in a hospital? Well, okay, so she’d been sitting here in the patient waiting area only about ten minutes, but still. Where was a nurse, or the tech to wheel her in and get this business over and done?

  She didn’t even need another brain scan. She sincerely hoped it wouldn’t include an injection. Her head was aching again, a slow series of dull thuds. She wanted to get out of here; she wanted to be able to kiss Dillon silly and hug Sean to her, have him pat her shoulder and ask her to play a computer game with him that it would be her responsibility to lose with dignity and guile.

  Deputy Ray Rozan stood near the radiology waiting room door, his eyes always on the move, studying anyone for the slightest interest in coming within six feet of her. He was on edge, all the guards were, what with two maniacs out there. But it wasn’t Xu, it was the other unknown man that scared him. They had only a sketch and a description of him: slender build, an American, maybe older, but no one was really sure. Whatever his age, he’d been capable of that mad spree in the elevator on Saturday.

  Ray looked over at Sherlock, knew she wanted nothing more than to go home. He watched her pull her cell phone out of the pocket of a dark blue bathrobe with lots of dog hair on it that Savich had brought in for her along with her cell. He’d heard Savich had returned the previous night to sleep on a cot not two feet from her hospital bed. Rozan wondered if he’d told her why he’d been called away. He probably hadn’t, since she didn’t look upset, only a bit anxious. And hurting a little, too, from the fixed expression in her eyes. Her hair looked better without the blood—a soft riot of curls now, so thick it nearly covered the small bandage over the head wound. It was hard to imagine the person in that bathrobe tackling Xu and bringing him down.


  “You want me to go see what’s holding up these yahoos, Sherlock?”

  She glanced down at her watch. “We can give them another couple of minutes. We’ll make it fifteen minutes, tops. I think I’ll call Dillon, see what’s happened.”

  Rozan said it aloud: “Xu killed a physician, the one who treated him.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I was told.” She closed her eyes against the stark knowledge of it. She’d been so close, she thought. She’d had Xu flat on his face against the sidewalk. If only she’d had time to get the other cuff on him. If only.

  “We’re ready for your test now, Agent Sherlock.” Sherlock looked up to see a tall, lanky tech standing beside Deputy Rozan, wearing scrubs, a mask over his nose, green booties on his feet. He had a sheaf of papers in his gloved hand.

  Deputy Rozan said, “I need to see your ID.”

  The man turned, clearly startled. “Are you her husband, sir?”

  “No, I’m Deputy Rozan. She’s in my care. Show me your ID, please.”

  “Well, you can see my name tag, and here are the orders for Agent Sherlock’s CT scan, signed by Dr. Kardak.”

  “Why don’t you have a hospital ID?”

  “It’s in my locker. I usually wear it, but no one ever asks for it.”

  “Then show me your driver’s license.”

  Savich burst into the waiting room, saw the tech, masked, standing too close to Rozan, and raised his SIG. “Get back and drop to your knees!”

  The man dropped Sherlock’s chart and fell to his knees on the floor. Savich, panting hard from running, stood over him.

  The man looked up at him, obviously terrified. “Who are you? What did I do?”

  Rozan said, “He didn’t have his hospital ID, and I’d just asked him for his driver’s license when you, ah, came in, Agent Savich.”

  “Lose the mask,” Savich said.

  The man pulled the ties loose. The mask fell off his face. “My name’s Terry Lempert; see, my name’s on my name tag. Why are you pointing that gun at me?”

  Savich put his SIG back in his waist holster.

  A nurse came to the door. “What’s going on here? Goodness, Terry, what did you do now?”

  Sherlock said calmly, “Officer Rozan is my guard, and this is my husband. I guess you’d say he’s part of the guard detail for me. He thought this man was a threat to me. Do you know him? Can you verify he’s supposed to be here? To take me in for a CT scan?”

  The nurse looked toward Rozan.

  “Yes,” Rozan said. “Can you identify this man for us?”

  She said, “I’ve known him for nearly ten years. It’s Terry Lempert. He’s been known to flirt with pretty patients, though, and I thought he’d gone over the top this time.” She watched the husband pull Terry to his feet.

  “Very funny, Kaitlyn,” Terry said, dusting off his knees. “I wasn’t doing anything, really.”

  Savich said, “Sorry, Mr. Lempert. You really should consider wearing your ID, given all that’s happened here the past week.”

  Lempert said, “Yeah, oh, yes, right. You nearly made me mess myself.”

  “He didn’t shoot you,” Officer Rozan said, and smiled, shook Lempert’s hand. “You’ll be fine. You did good.”

  Savich walked to where Sherlock sat smiling, of all things, in her wheelchair. She laid her hand on his arm. “My hero.”

  “Terry, go get your ID. Then you can take over Jonah’s case in room three. Jonah can deal with Agent Sherlock. Next time, don’t wear a mask when you fetch a patient. I’ve told you it freaks them out.” She shot a look at Savich. “And their husbands.”

  Savich rested one hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sorry, Terry,” he said. “But if anything happened to Sherlock, I’d lose my job.”

  Terry was very pleased to take over Jonah’s case, even if it was a ninety-year-old curmudgeon from Fresno who did nothing but cuss at him.

  Skyline Motel

  El Cerrito, California, east of the Richmond Bridge

  Wednesday afternoon

  Xu was trying to sleep, but it was hard, since he felt like crap. After leaving Dr. Chu’s clinic yesterday afternoon, he’d barely made it across the Richmond Bridge and was glad to find this hole-in-the-wall motel near the highway. He wished he’d made it farther, but it was impossible, not until he was stronger. He had not taken enough oxycodone to kill his pain entirely because he couldn’t allow himself to get completely helpless. It was what a stupid man would do, and he hadn’t survived by being stupid. He would make peace with the grinding pain.

  Xu knew what this pain would be like, since he’d been shot once before. One of his trainers in the army compound outside Beijing had accidentally shot him in the leg, the blind moron. He remembered his trainer Mr. Yeung had actually cried over him, which was the only reason Xu hadn’t tried to kick his stomach through his backbone.

  His arm would heal, Dr. Chu had assured him several times, and he’d be well enough to fly anywhere in three or four days. Xu knew from his other gunshot wound that he wouldn’t have full use of his arm for several months. At least the bullet hadn’t shattered any bones on its way out of his arm.

  Dr. Chu had known not to ask what had happened when Xu showed him his wound and his gun. He’d calmly sent his office staff home before he ushered Xu into one of the clinic exam rooms, helped him out of his blood-soaked jacket and his shirt, and settled him on the examining table. He’d asked absolutely nothing while he’d worked on him, but Dr. Chu had known. The doctor had given him intravenous morphine and Versed. Xu had watched him as he began silently cleaning out and suturing his wound. Xu had floated away, only vaguely aware of what Dr. Chu was doing. He remembered lying stretched out on Dr. Chu’s examining table until he thought he could drive safely. He’d asked to take a Windbreaker with him he’d seen on a hanger in a hallway, and Dr. Chu had helped him put it on. It was large enough to fit over his arm without too much pain and zip over the bandage, since his shirt wasn’t salvageable. Dr. Chu had told him to wait while he brought him antibiotics and pain meds from his office. He hadn’t realized Xu had followed him down the hallway and could hear him speaking.

  He heard Dr. Chu say, “I need to speak to the police about the fire at the Fairmont today. I know what happened.”

  Xu had no time for thought. He’d stepped into the small office, aimed his Beretta at Dr. Chu, who heard him and looked up and threw the phone at him as Xu pulled the trigger. Xu watched him slide down behind his desk. He heard a voice on the phone saying, “Sir, who is this? What do you want again? You said you knew about the Fairmont fire?”

  Xu hung up the phone, took some antibiotics and oxycodone, and walked out of the clinic.

  It was too bad about Dr. Chu. Xu appreciated what the doctor had done for him. The doctor was collateral damage, and he’d still be alive if he’d had better judgment.

  The FBI knew who he was and knew what he looked like; they had to, since they’d found him, probably through Cindy. He’d been too late after all. His passport and his visa were useless to him, but he knew where he could get others. At least they didn’t have a clue where he was now or where he was going to be soon enough. It was then he realized, paralyzed for a moment, that neither did he. He’d dumped the white Infiniti on one of Sausalito’s curving streets and hot-wired a dark blue Honda parked nearby. He should have gone farther away to find a car, but he’d simply been too weak.

  Xu pulled the cheap motel blanket up to his neck, settled his wounded arm on one of the skinny pillows. First he had to heal. He could hardly fly to Beijing into the arms of the Chinese, not now, even if a false passport got him through customs. The Chinese would sever all connections with him now and deny he ever existed, no matter how valuable the information he’d gotten them from Lindy’s computer. They might even kill him if they could.

&
nbsp; Xu forced himself to lie perfectly still on the rock-hard mattress, yet the pain in his arm continued to drum a steady tattoo. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, but the instant he closed his eyes, he was back at the Fairmont, watching each and every scene play through slowly. So be it. He examined each decision he’d made, an exercise his trainers had taught him early on. He thought of the flash-bang he’d long carried with him. He’d never really believed he’d need it, but his training had always pushed precaution, and that piece of insurance had paid off in spades. It had been a while since he’d used one, but he hadn’t forgotten. That and the bomb he’d set up in his room had saved his life.

  Should he have gone out the hotel through the back service entrance? No, there would have been FBI agents out there waiting for him, away from the crowds. He’d done the right thing there, too, getting whole-hide out of the lobby by mixing with the tourists who were running around like berserkers after he blew up his little surprise.

  He let himself relive the awful pain he’d felt crashing down to the sidewalk when the FBI agent had tackled him and smashed her fist against his wounded arm. He felt again the humiliation and panic when she’d snapped the cuff on his right wrist and began reciting his rights to him, close to his ear, the bitch.

  Even after all his training, perhaps because of it, there’d been no way he could have foreseen that agent chasing him down. It wasn’t just any damned FBI agent, no, it was a woman, and it shouldn’t have happened, wouldn’t have happened if he’d been whole. He should have turned to face her, used his training to snap her skinny neck or his Beretta to shoot her dead, before she’d gotten him down.

  A woman bested me. He looked down at the handcuff that still circled his right wrist. How to get the damned thing off? It would have to wait. He’d figure something out, he always did.

  And someone had shot the bitch. It had looked to Xu like she was dead, a shot through the head, but of course he hadn’t checked, just shoved her off him and run.