Backfire fst-16

by Catherine Coulter

  “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.

  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.


  Who was he? Was it the same idiot who had shot Judge Hunt at the wrong moment and blown the Cahills’ trial apart? Had he shot the agent purposefully to save Xu? Why?

  Who was he?

  When the knock came on the door of his motel room, Xu grabbed his gun, gasped at the rip of pain through his arm, and shouted, “Go away!”

  Another knock.

  Xu raised his Beretta, aimed it at the motel door. “Who is it?”

  A hard rasping smoker’s voice called out, “I’m the one who saved your bacon.”

  Xu stared at the man standing in front of him, his back to the motel door. He was wearing a Giants baseball cap, sunglasses, a loose blue Windbreaker, jeans, sneakers, and gloves. He smiled at Xu, not moving since Xu’s Beretta was steady on his chest.

  “Who are you?”

  “I already told you, I’m the one who saved your bacon. Good thing I followed you here from that doctor’s office in Sausalito, since it looks like you’re going to need some more saving.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Well, now, I’ve got to admit I had a bit of luck there. My car was near that white Infiniti you stole—nice job, incidentally, yanking that guy right out, no muss, no fuss, and you were out of there. I lost you for a while because of all that snarled traffic you caused at the Fairmont, but then I thought about it and decided you’d probably headed to the Golden Gate, so I did, too. And there you were ahead of me, going through the tollbooth. I followed you off at Spencer Avenue, watched you leave the Infiniti and steal the blue Honda. Then I sat back and waited for you just down the block from that doctor’s office.

  “Yeah, I heard the gunshot. You killed the guy. Why? He saved your bacon, too.”

  Xu’s arm hurt from holding the Beretta steady, but it didn’t matter. The Beretta didn’t move. “I overheard the moron calling the cops. I had no choice.”

  “Good to know you don’t just go around shooting folk for no reason.”

  “No,” Xu said, “there’s always a reason. Then you followed me here?”

  “Sure, not a problem. I was surprised you made it so far the way you were driving. Gotta say, you sure don’t look so hot. You’ve still got some blood on your face from when that agent planted you on the sidewalk.”

  There was blood on his face? What did this guy want? Xu said slowly, “But that was yesterday afternoon. Why did you wait until today to knock on my door?”

  The man said matter-of-factly, “The Feds might have been following you or you might have had some other help coming. I had to wait, seeing as how I’m not too fond of the cops myself. You know, there’s a chance the clerk in the dinky motel office might have seen the blood on your face, and if he did, he must have wondered. Surely he wondered. If he sees your photo on TV, he’ll know.”

  “Nah, the kid doesn’t know anything; he was too busy playing video games when I checked in. I don’t even remember a TV.”

  “Like I said, you don’t look too hot. Do you want another pain med? Once we get you feeling better, we can decide where to go. Look, if I’d wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have shot that agent off your back. I’m not here to hurt you. You’re already in bad shape. I’m here to help you. Stop pointing that ridiculous gun at me.”

  Xu ground out the words “Why would you care?”

  “I’m thinking we’re a lot alike.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Nah, I kill because I want to, and you kill because you have to. See? Not so different.”

  Xu stared at the guy for a long time, and nodded. “The pills are on the night table.”

  The guy shook two pills out onto his gloved palm, handed them to Xu, waited until he swallowed them, and gave him a glass of water.

  Xu still didn’t pull down the Beretta. He motioned the guy to step back, then held himself still and waited for relief.

  “I see from the number of pills still in the bottle you’ve been going light on the pain meds. Not a bad idea, given who could come through that door.”

  “Take another step back. I don’t want you so close to me.”

  Xu watched him take two steps back.

  “Why did you kill that FBI agent who was on my back?”

  “Well, you see, when she knocked you down, she was out there in the open. I had a nice clear shot, and I took it.”

  “You’re saying it wasn’t about me? You wanted to kill her?”

  “Oh, yeah, I wanted her dead, but I figured what I was seeing was pretty interesting, so why not see where it led me? Hey, kill one bird and save the other.”

  He opened his mouth, but the man raised a gloved hand. “No reason for you to ask me any more right now. Maybe if we become BFFs, I’ll tell you everything.”

  The medication was numbing the pain in his arm but blurring his brain as well. Xu said, “Were you the one who tried to kill Judge Hunt?”

  The guy nodded. “I thought I nailed the bastard, but he turned at that last second. Can you believe the rotten luck? But still, it was a good shot, he should have died.”

  “But he didn’t. Did you try to take him out again in the hospital?”

  Xu would swear the guy puffed up with pride.

  “I gave that plan a lot of thought, even got me some blood from a patient in the hospital to smear on the walls of the elevator shaft to drive the Feds nuts, but—”

  Xu interrupted, “It was a ridiculous plan.” He stopped talking at a fierce jab of pain, held himself perfectly still, waiting for the meds to kick in and kill the pain once and for all. This idiot who’d shot through an elevator hatch wanted to help him?

  Xu said, “I want to see you. Take off those sunglasses and that ball cap now or I’ll drill you between the eyes.”

  “Okey-dokey, fair enough, but ready yourself. You’re in for a big whopper surprise.”

  The ball cap and the sunglasses came off. Xu stared, so stunned that for a moment he didn’t feel the pain in his arm.

  “Got you, didn’t I?”

  Xu could only nod.

  “Fact is, I mean, who can you trust in this sad world?”

  “You,” he said. “Maybe I can trust you. You’re as bad as I am.”

  “No, you’re wrong about that. I’m worse.”

  Judge Sherlock’s home

  Pacific Heights, San Francisco

  Wednesday evening

  Sean was teaching Cal and Gage how to play Flying Monks, the latest computer game his grandmother had presented to him when they’d first arrived. It was always a treat for Sherlock to watch her five-year-old teaching younger children, and three-year-old Cal and Gage looked utterly absorbed, nodding and all serious about the rules Sean was laying on them. Flying Monks—another new game Sherlock would have to master.

  She caught herself thinking that kids were so different now, an observation probably made by every single generation in man’s long timeline. She smiled to herself. Time always passed, and everything always changed. No kid today could imagine the world without a small device called a cell phone that would soon do everything but make them Kool-Aid. And now you could ask your phone a question and it would answer. But people, she thought, people themselves never changed.

  Cal shouted, “I got you, Gage. I’ve moved up two ranks. I’m flying! I’m a Major Monk now.”

  Sherlock felt bone tired, and was trying not to show it, but she didn’t mind, because she’d succeeded in fooling Sean. She’d hidden her bandage well enough—thank God for all her curly hair—and he’d accepted her being gone Tuesday night, inquiring only if Emma had wondered why he hadn’t come to see her. Sherlock had lied to him cleanly. “Of course Emma wanted to know where you were, Sean. I told her you’d promised yourself to your grandparents and you’d never break a promise.”

  “You didn’t tell her I went to see Rory and the Last Duck, did you, Mama?”

  “Nope.”

  “She doesn’t know Grandpa and I ate two buckets of kettle corn, does she? I don’t want her to think I’m a pig.”

  �
�Nope.”

  Sean looked thoughtful, an identical expression to his father’s. “There’s so much to do, Mama. Sometimes I just don’t know.”

  His grandmother had walked in then with a freshly baked plate of chocolate-chip cookies, and Sherlock forgot to ask him what he just didn’t know.

  She sensed Dillon behind her and heard his deep voice. “Here, sweetheart.” He leaned down, kissed her mouth, and handed her a cup of hot tea. “Drink it down. Then I’m thinking it’s time for you to hang it up for the night.”

  “But—”

  “Dr. Kardak said you’d give me grief and I was going to have to be the enforcer. You’ve done well, stayed nice and quiet all afternoon and evening. Now it’s time to let your brain and your body knit themselves back together while you have pleasant dreams.” He paused for a moment. “I’m thinking I have some good ideas on how to help you make that happen.”

  She took a sip of tea, looked up at him. “You’re going to read me a bedtime story?”

  “I could, but I hadn’t planned to.”

  “I wonder what you could possibly have in mind?”

  He smiled at her. “You finish your tea and we’ll see. Molly called, said Ramsey misses you since you were a civilizing influence on all those males around him. She’ll be here with Emma soon to pick up Gage and Cal. Ah, if you like, I can remove Sean before Emma comes in.”

  “I’ll watch Cal and Gage,” Evelyn Sherlock said. “I’ve got the power as long as I’ve got these chocolate-chip cookies.”

  Sherlock said, “Maybe it’d be good to take Sean upstairs, otherwise he’ll be so excited about seeing Emma it’ll be difficult to get him to bed.”

  Half an hour later, Sherlock was lying in bed, the pill Dillon fed her quashing the remnants of pain in her head.

  Now, what else did her husband have in mind, as if she couldn’t guess? She heard him singing a country-western tune in the bathroom, a song James Quinlan, a fellow agent and musician, had written about a man who loved wild broncos, wilder women, and black gold. When he came into the bedroom a few minutes later, he was wearing only pajama bottoms, slung low on his hips.