The Maze ft-2

by Catherine Coulter

  Neither man said anything until she'd drunk her fill. Then Quinlan laughed when Savich said, "Having you suck on a straw is better than trying to balance you on the edge of the cup. You don't drool so much."

  "Just because you tried to dump the entire glass of water down my throat that first time-oh dear, I'm beginning to feel mean again, sir."

  Quinlan said, "Not just yet, Agent Sherlock. Er, did you know that Sally and I were married a year last month-in October? Dillon here found us the wedding date and the church."

  "Why did he do that?"

  "Well, I was kind of out of it at the time and Sally was so worried about me that she didn't even think about marrying me. So Dillon had to take care of it."

  "What he means to say is that he had a bullet in his heart and couldn't do much but press more morphine into his vein.

  As for Sally, she probably only agreed to marry him because she felt sorry for him."

  She smiled at that, and thankfully, it didn't hurt. "Oh goodness. Have I gotten into the wrong career?"

  "You're off to a good start," Quinlan said. "Wounded twice and you've been out of training only what? A month? Hey, don't worry. I've made it to thirty-four, same as Savich here."

  They heard voices outside. Quinlan raised an eyebrow and said, "I think my whirlwind of a wife has just blown in. The guard you've got out there doesn't stand a chance, Dillon."

  "No indeed," said a very pretty young woman about La-cey's own age as she came into the room. She had dusty blond hair, clasped with barrettes behind her ears, and blue eyes that looked soft and tender, and had seen too much. She was slender and looked very small next to the two men. She didn't, however, look like a skinny little wench. "Don't blame Agent Crammer. He knows me. He helped me barbecue those half a dozen corn on the cob last month, remember, James?"

  "Our venture into vegetarian barbecuing," James Quinlan said with disgust and poked Savich's arm. "Just for you I had to barbecue corn on the cob. I lost more of my manhood that day."

  "Your manhood seems to be a lot in question lately," Savich said. "Hey, Sally, this is Sherlock. She's the one who needed your decorating help until she had it done herself. She just called up one of those expensive designers and the guy tripped all over himself to please her."

  Lacey felt a soft hand lightly stroke her forearm. "You certainly scared the sense out of Dillon here. I was watching him on the phone, and he turned white, threw the phone down, and ran out of the club. Ms. Lily thought he was so horny he couldn't hold himself back another second. As for Fuzz, the bartender, he just shook his head and said Savich should have a beer occasionally, it would make him more mellow. Marvin, the bouncer, said he was glad Savich didn't drink. He never wanted to have to try to bounce him."

  Lacey said, "I'd like to meet these people. Dillon said he went there to support Mr. Quinlan."

  "Oh, sure, but it's not just that, he-"

  "Now, Sally," Savich interrupted her without apology, "Sherlock here is looking as though she's ready to fall through the railing. Let's leave her alone. She needs to rest. Ah, here's Dr. Breaker. Ned, your patient here is looking glassy-eyed."

  "Out," Dr. Breaker said, not looking at any of them. When they were alone, he said quietly as he took her pulse, "I didn't intend for you to begin partying so soon, Agent Sherlock. Hey, where'd you get that neat name?"

  "My dad. He's a judge. I understand that lawyers hate to be in his courtroom. They say it scares their clients to death, being up in front of a guy named Judge Sherlock." She smiled up at him, then closed her eyes, her head falling to the side. Dr. Breaker gently laid her hand on the bed. He checked her eyes. He stood quietly and studied her face. Then he nodded. Everything was just fine. She would recover. He had only one foot out her door when Savich was in his face, saying, "Well?"

  "No 'well' about it, Savich. She'll be just fine. She's out now and should stay out until morning, with the medication she's had. Nasty business. The guy could have killed her pounding her head on the floor the way he did, to say nothing of hitting her head with the butt of a gun."

  Savich sighed, looking down at his clasped hands. ' Thanks again for coming so quickly. How long will she be in here?''

  "Another day, I'd say. As I told you, the CT scan was normal. No bleeding, no abnormalities that any of the radiologists could see. I'll reevaluate her again in the morning. Now I'm home to bed."

  When Dr. Breaker disappeared into the elevator, Quinlan said, "This is a strange business, Dillon. You want to tell me about it now?"

  Savich looked at two of his best friends and said slowly, "I'm in deep shit."

  "What does that mean?" Sally said, sitting on the bench beside him.

  Savich just shook his head. "Listen, you guys, thanks for coming down. I think I'll stay here. One of the nurses offered me a bed. I'd feel better with Crammer out here and me inside her room. She'd really be safe then."

  "You've got no idea who's behind all this?"

  "It could be someone involved with Marlin Jones, that makes the most sense. But who? He's a real loner from what we know. And why would Marlin care if she left town or not? Other than Marlin, there's no one else out there waving a flag. Well, there is someone else. We'll see. It's a mystery, all deep and winding around and around." To Savich's relief, neither Sally nor Quinlan asked him more questions.

  An hour later, he was lying on his back on a very hard cot, listening to her even breathing. She moaned once, sending him to his feet in an instant and to her bedside, only to see that she was still asleep. He stood there, looking down at her, white and bandaged, an IV in her arm. She twitched, her hand clenching into a fist, then relaxing again. He didn't like any of this. Why did that guy want to hear what she knew about Marlin Jones? It made no sense. If someone else had killed Belinda, one of her family, then it would make sense that they'd want her out of the way. But then why would he or she hire that man to tell Sherlock that Marlin was innocent? Surely if he just thought enough about it, examined every little detail, he would find an answer. But all he could think about now was listening carefully to her breathing. He lightly touched his fingertips to her jaw. It was a khaki green. He stepped back.

  He lay back down, felt the smooth cold of his gun next to his hand, and kept listening to her until finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, he fell asleep.

  "I want to go home."

  "Now, Agent Sherlock, I think another full day would be just the thing for you. The medical staff likes having FBI agents in here. It makes them feel important. Ah, and a bit on the superior side since they're still on their feet and you, an agent, aren't."

  "You've got to be making that up. The nurse this morning was very sweet when she poked me with a needle. And it wasn't in the rear end, thank God. Listen, Dr. Breaker, it's already four o'clock in the afternoon. I've been counting sheep since nine o'clock this morning. I'm fine. My head hurts just a bit, but nothing else, not even the cut on my head. Please, Dr. Breaker, I want to go home."

  "Let's talk about it a bit more," he said, backing away from the bed. "Oh yeah, you can call me Ned."

  She swung her legs over and sat up. "I need some clothes, Ned."

  "Keep your socks on. I've got clothes for you, Sherlock. Ned told me you'd probably demand to take off."

  She looked down at her bare foot. "I don't even have any socks, just this flimsy hospital gown that's open in the back."

  Savich just grinned at her. "Well, Ned, shall I take her off your hands?"

  "She's yours, Savich. She'll be fine. She just needs another day taking it easy and these pills for any pain." He handed Savich the bottle of pills.

  "Good-bye, Agent Lacey Sherlock. That's a weird name. If I were you, I'd have it changed. How about Jane Sherlock?"

  "That wasn't funny, Ned," Savich said, but Dr. Breaker was chuckling. "I've never before had the chance to say that. It's an old joke, you know."

  "Yes," Lacey said. "I know."

  "Heard it, huh?"

  "I've heard al
l of them. Thank you, Dr. Breaker. Dillon, give me my clothes and see Dr. Breaker out."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Savich stayed out until she opened the door. He was talking to Agent Crammer, a ruddy-faced, barrel-chested young man who had a degree in accounting from the University of Pennsylvania.

  She eyed them. When Savich looked up, he took in her outfit and grinned. "Not bad, huh? You won't be arrested by the fashion police."

  He'd brought her a dark green silk blouse and a pair of blue jeans, a blue blazer and a pair of low-heeled boots that she'd only worn one time. She liked the outfit but would never have picked it out. It made her look too-

  "You look real sharp, Agent Sherlock," Crammer said.

  "Yeah," Savich added, " 'real sharp.' Cute even."

  "A Special Agent shouldn't look anything but competent and trustworthy. I'll go home and change."

  "With that bandage on your head, you're not going to make it into the competence hall of fame. Best settle for cute. At least it's only a big Band-Aid now."

  "I want to go home, sir."

  "Crammer, thanks for keeping watch."

  They made her ride downstairs in a wheelchair.

  "You ready?"

  She stared at a sexy red Porsche. "That's yours?"

  "Yes, it's mine."

  "How do you fit into it?"

  Whatever he'd expected her to say, evidently that wasn't it, because he chuckled. "I fit," he said only and opened the door for her.

  He did fit. "This is wonderful. Douglas drives a black 1990 Porsche 911. Every time I drove that dratted car, I got a speeding ticket."

  "They do that to you if you don't watch it. Now, Sherlock, you aren't going home just yet."

  "I have to go home. I have plants to water-"

  "Quinlan will water your plants. He's magic with plants. He'll probably even sing to them. Sally says she expects those African violets of his to try to get into bed with them. Don't worry about your plants."

  "Where do you want me to go? A safe house?"

  "No. You're coming home with me."

  22

  NO ONE FOLLOWED US, AND yes, I saw you looking too. Forget the baddies for the moment. What do you think of my humble abode?''

  "I forgot about anybody following us the moment I stepped in here. I've never seen anything quite like it." She raised her face and splayed her fingers in front of her. "It's filled with light."

  It wasn't a simple two-story open town house. There were soaring pale-beamed ceilings with huge skylights, all the walls painted a soft cream. The furnishings were beige, gold, and a dozen shades of brown. The oak floors were dotted with Persian carpets, the colors soft, mellow, old. A winding oak stairway covered with a running Tabriz carpet in multiple blues went up the stairs. There was a richly carved wooden oak railing running the perimeter of the landing.

  "Dillon," she said slowly, turning to look at him for the first time since she'd stepped into this magic place, "my house is to this as a stable is to Versailles. This place is incredible, I've never seen anything like it. You have unplumbed depths. Oh dear, I'm not feeling so good."

  She wasn't nauseous, thank goodness, but she did collapse into one of his big, soft, buttery brown leather chairs, close her eyes, and swallow several times. He put her feet on a matching leather hassock.

  "You need to eat. No, you need to rest. But first I'll get you some water. How about some saltine crackers? My aunt Faye always fed saltines to my pregnant female relatives. What do you think?"

  She cocked open an eye. She sighnd and swallowed again. "I'm not pregnant, Dillon, but you know, maybe a saltine wouldn't be a bad idea."

  He covered her with a rich gold chenille afghan, tucking it around her feet on the leather hassock, and took off to the kitchen. She hadn't seen the kitchen. She wondered if its ceiling went up two stories just like the rest of the house.

  After she ate a saltine and drank some water, she said, "I think the FBI pays you too much money. You could open this place to the public and charge admission."

  "I'm poor, Sherlock. I inherited this house and a bit on the side from my grandmother. She was an artist-watercolors and acrylics."

  "Was she a professional? What was her name?"

  "Sarah Elliott."

  She just stared at him, one eyebrow arched, chewing another saltine cracker. "You're kidding," she said finally. "You're telling me that the Sarah Elliott was your grandmother?"

  "Yes. She was my mother's mom. A great old lady. She died five years ago when she was eighty-four. I remember she told me that it was time for her to go because the arthritis had gotten really bad in her hands. She couldn't hold her paintbrushes anymore. I told her that her talent wasn't in her hands, it was in her mind. I told her to stop bitching and to hold the paintbrushes between her teeth." He paused a moment, smiling toward a painting of an orchid just beginning to bloom. "I thought at first that she would slug me, then she started laughing. She had this really deep, full laugh. She lived for another year, holding the paintbrushes between her dentures." He would never forget the first time he'd seen her with that paintbrush sticking out of her mouth, smiling when she saw him, nearly dropping the brush. It had been one of the happiest moments of his life.

  "And you were Sarah Elliott's favorite grandchild? That's why she left you this beautiful house in the middle of Georgetown?"

  "Well, she was worried since I'd chosen the FBI and computer shenanigans for a career."

  "Shenanigans? I like that. But what exactly was she worried about?" She pulled the afghan higher up on her chest. A headache was slowly building behind her left ear. She hated it. Even her arm ached where Marlin Jones had knifed her weeks before.

  "She was afraid that my artistic side would stultify, what with the demands of my job and with my constant computer fiddling."

  "Ah, so this place is to inspire you? Get you in touch with your artistic genes?"

  "Yes. You look green, Sherlock. I think it's time you took a nap. Do you have to puke?"

  "Living here still hasn't kicked in your artistic genes enough. Puke is a dreadful word. May I just stay here for a while? It's very comfortable. I'm just a bit on the thready side."

  "No wonder," he said, and watched her head loll to the side. She was out. The chair was oversized, so he wasn't worried that she'd wake up stiff as a pretzel. He unfolded another afghan over her, one his mother had knitted, this one so soft it spilled through the fingers. He stroked it as he gently tucked it around her shoulders. She'd French-braided her hair, but it really wasn't long enough, and so auburn spikes stuck up here and there. Several strands of hair fell about her face, curling around just a bit. The big Band-Aid looked absurd plastered over the shaved spot on her temple, faintly pathetic really, since she was so pale.

  All she needed was a little rest. She'd be just fine. He lightly stroked his fingertips over her eyebrows.

  He saw she had a spray of freckles over the bridge of her nose.

  She didn't have any freckles anywhere else. And he'd looked. He hadn't meant to, but he had. He really liked the freckles on her nose.

  No doubt about it. He was in deep shit.

  She woke up to the smell of garlic, onion, and tomatoes. Her mouth started watering even before her brain fully registered food. Her stomach growled. She felt just fine, no more nausea.

  "Good, you're awake."

  "What are you cooking?"

  "Penne pasta with sun-dried tomatoes, pesto, onions, and garlic. And some garlic toast. You're drooling, Sherlock. You've got an appetite, I hope."

  "I could eat this afghan."

  "Not that one, please. It's my favorite. The nurses told me you hadn't eaten much all day. Time to stuff yourself. First, here's a couple of pills for you to take."

  She took them without asking what they were.

  "No wine. How about some cider?" He put a tray over her legs and watched her take her first bite of Savich pesto pasta. She closed her eyes as she slowly, very slowly, chewed, and chewed some more unti
l there was nothing left in her mouth but the lingering burst of pesto and garlic. She licked her lips. Finally, she opened her eyes, stared at him for a very long time, then said, "You'll make a fantastic husband, Dillon. I've never tasted anything so delicious in my life."

  "It's my mom's recipe. She taught me how to make the pasta when I was eighteen and headed off to MIT. She'd told me she'd heard that the only thing they ate up there was Boston beans. She said guys and beans didn't mix well so I needed to know how to make something else. You really like it better than the pizza you devoured a couple of nights ago?"

  "Goodness, it was just two nights ago, wasn't it? It seems like a decade. Actually, I like it better than anything I can ever remember eating. Do you make pizza too?"

  "Sure. You want some for breakfast?"

  "You cook it anytime you want, I'll consume it." They didn't say anything more for a good seven minutes. Savich's tray was on the coffee table, close enough to keep a good eye on her. She stopped halfway through and stared down at the rest of her pasta. He thought she was going to cry. "It's so good. There's just no more room."

  "If you get hungry later, we can just heat it up."

  She was fiddling with her fork, building little structures with the pasta, watching the emerging patterns with great concentration. She didn't look up as she said, "I didn't know there were men like you."

  He studied his fingernails, saw a hangnail on his thumb, and frowned. He didn't look up either, just said, "What does that mean?"

  "Well, you live in a beautiful house, and I can't see a speck of mess or dust. In other words, you're not a pig. But that's just extraneous stuff, important, sure, but not a deal breaker. You have a big heart, Dillon. And you're a great cook."

  "Sherlock, I've lived alone for five years. Man cannot live by pizza at Dizzy Dan's alone. Also, I don't like squalor. There are lots of men like me. Quinlan, for example. Ask Sally, she'll say his heart is bigger than the Montana sky."