Backfire fst-16

by Catherine Coulter

  “It was a common-law marriage, and she kept her maiden name—Cartwright. She served her ten years in Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women in Saint Gabriel, outside of Baton Rouge, until four months ago when she was paroled, completely rehabilitated, and, citing her exemplary behavior, willing to do whatever was asked of her, according to the warden himself. She was, naturally, a clerk in the prison library, spent many hours in there ‘studying,’ according to the parole board records.”

  Sherlock said, “And I was second on her list after Ramsey? To hurt you?”

  Savich nodded. “She must have decided to put Ramsey on hold, since she realized there was no way she could get to him again in the hospital, not after the elevator debacle.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t get over her preparation for that attempt. She even took Boozer’s blood, remember, because she wanted us to think she was wounded, and that she was a man. She wanted to play with us.”

  “And Boozer described a man as well.”

  “Well, we thought Xu was a woman for a very long time, what with that Sue name mix-up. Turns out we were wrong on both counts.”

  Sherlock said, “That stunt in the elevator. Amazing, what she did.”

  “She failed, thanks to Eve and Kevlar.”

  Sherlock said, “Dillon, how do you know it was Charlene, though? I mean, for sure?”

  “There were samples of her handwriting in the trial record. They matched the notes she sent us. And she’s wanted in Louisiana again, for cutting out on her parole officer two months ago.”

  Sherlock said, “She must have been following the FBI van, no other explanation for why she was there and ready to shoot just when I was out and visible at the Fairmont.”

  “She would have had no idea you’d jump out of the van and go after Xu. That part of it was lucky for her.”

  “Lucky for both of them,” Sherlock said. “And isn’t that a happy thought?” If her aim had been a hair better, I’d be dead. Sherlock’s hand was a fist on his chest. He felt her fingers tangle in his chest hair. He pressed lightly, flattening her palm.

  Savich said, “I’ve got her photo. It will make a huge difference knowing who we’re looking for. You know, Charlene doesn’t look like a killer, not really. I saw two photos, one before her trial and one taken two years ago. She didn’t look beaten down anymore, like a battered wife. She looked fierce, the set of her head and shoulders was proud, like she was on a mission for justice, like some old Joan of Arc.”

  Sherlock pushed off the covers. “Let me see.”

  “No, you stay put. I’ll bring MAX in here to show you.” He felt her hand moving over his chest. He leaned down, kissed her.

  “No, don’t bring in MAX just yet,” she said against his jaw. She kissed his throat. “Not yet.”

  San Francisco General Hospital

  Judge Hunt’s room

  Thanksgiving

  Nurse Natalie Chase was divorced. Even though her ex was a real loser, she’d loved his name, and since she didn’t have any kids by him, she’d kept it. Thank heaven his gene pool wouldn’t continue through her. She had no close family, only a couple of cousins who lived in Boston, so she always volunteered for holiday shifts. She liked holidays; there was usually something special going on, and she didn’t have to be alone. This year she’d been invited to a Thanksgiving feast like no other she’d seen in a patient’s room, with Judge Hunt and his crew. They were breaking more visiting rules than she cared to think about, but nobody was worried about it, not since it was Judge Dredd and it was Thanksgiving.

  Sure, she had to keep an eye on all her other patients, but most of them were with family, chowing down on turkey and dressing if they could. Even her elderly patient with Alzheimer’s was with his daughter, who was snacking on turkey and stuffing while she kept vigil. No one was alone today.

  It baffled and angered Natalie that someone would want to kill Judge Ramsey Hunt. He was genuinely nice, a treat to the eyes, and, like everyone else taking care of him, she was thankful today of all days that Judge Dredd was doing so well. Another three or four days, she thought, and he should be well enough to go home. Home, maybe, but not back to his normal life. Not while there was a killer who might try for him again. She couldn’t imagine living with that, couldn’t imagine what his family was going through, knowing that a madman was still out there, waiting for another chance.

  At first the TV news had showed a picture of a man, Joe Keats, who’d escaped from the Fairmont a couple of days ago, as the man who’d shot Judge Hunt. And today they were showing the picture of a woman instead, who was supposed to be the shooter. She looked, Natalie thought, a bit like her own mother.

  Would there be another picture tomorrow? The news didn’t seem to have any idea why she tried to murder Judge Hunt and the FBI agent, but she knew that by the end of the day there would be talking heads arguing over every detail on TV and plastering the Internet with so many opinions even the mullahs in Iran would see them. She could already recite the words: “Anyone with any information about the whereabouts of either of these people—”

  SFPD Officer Gavin Hendricks waved his hand in front of her face. “You look a million miles away. Another slice of turkey?”

  She shook her head at him, smiling. He’d been guarding Judge Hunt for the past three days. He was a tall black man with a pitiful excuse for a goatee, she’d told him, and he’d laughed and said it was his father’s fault. She said, “If I eat any more I might pop a button, and that wouldn’t be cool at all. What if an emergency turns up? What if a patient sees me with my pants button popped open? It wouldn’t inspire much confidence.”

  “You’re sure, Natalie?” Molly Hunt called out. “We’ve got lots.”

  “Thank you, Molly, but if I ate another bite, I’d have to find a bench to sit on because my butt would be too big for a chair.”

  Gavin laughed. Natalie saw Molly turn to her husband and touch his arm and then his cheek. She did that every few minutes. A lioness always watching.

  The room should have been pandemonium with all the visitors—four guards, Judge Hunt’s family, three kids, and a slew of FBI agents. They’d wheeled out the second bed and taken advantage of the largest patient room in the hospital to set up several folding tables provided by the cafeteria, spread a tablecloth over them, and crammed in a dozen chairs. It was a wonder to see in a hospital room, Natalie thought. The table looked like a family dinner, with everyone in fine spirits, except that many of them were wearing guns and darting their eyes to the door if anyone approached.

  Agent Sherlock, the FBI agent who’d been her patient just yesterday, was forking down some of the incredible sausage stuffing, laughing at something her husband said to her. Lucky, lucky woman, Natalie thought. Did she realize how near she’d come to death?

  Not the time for grim thoughts, Natalie told herself. She looked back over at Officer Hendricks. He was coming her way, two slices of pumpkin pie on small Thanksgiving paper plates, with whipped cream on top. “I’ve decided both of us will trust our buttons not to pop,” he said, and held a slice of pie out to her.

  She considered turning it down, but naturally, she didn’t. “Thank you, Officer Hendricks.”

  “Make that Gavin, ma’am.”

  “And you can call me Natalie.”

  He sat down beside her, and they ate pumpkin pie and chatted about nothing in particular until the football game came on. Gavin forked down another bite of pie, closed his eyes, and hummed. “Oh, man, that is fine. I hear Emma Hunt made the pie. Emma’s a whiz on the piano and a good cook. I’d say the kid’s got it made.”

  They looked over to where Emma sat beside her father, her small white hand on his forearm.

  Her two little brothers, Cal and Gage, seriously cute identical twins, sat at the large table, currently hemmed in by three large adults and another little boy, Sean Savich. He would grow up to be as handsome as his dad, Natalie thought, looking from him to his father, Agent Dillon Savich.

  “Emm
a Hunt’s playing with the San Francisco Symphony next Wednesday,” Gavin continued, took another big bite of his pumpkin pie, and shook his head. “Hard to believe. Look at those small hands. What is she, eleven, twelve?”

  “She’s eleven, Judge Hunt told me. He’s so proud of her he would pop his own buttons if the hospital gown had any. All he can talk about is being well enough to go to see her perform next Wednesday.”

  “He’ll make it,” Hendricks said. “The man’s strong, he’s got an iron will. I’ve gotten to know him. You know, I keep seeing him jumping down from the judge’s bench in his black robes, flattening those yahoos who invaded his courtroom.”

  “I remember that. Goodness, everybody does. It was an incredible thing he did,” Natalie said. Her wrist pager beeped. She smiled at Officer Hendricks—Gavin—rose, and thanked the cooks for feeding her an extraordinary dinner.

  Natalie paused in the doorway for a moment, and looked back. She marveled at the bonhomie and goodwill they were all managing, even with that woman lurking in everyone’s mind, out there making more plans for murder. Even if the goodwill was paper-thin, it was valuable. She gave a last smile to Gavin.

  Natalie took care of the emergency—Mr. Pitt in room 306B was hyperventilating at the news his grandson had happily delivered about his marrying a Las Vegas dancer—and walked back to the nursing desk. She studied the photo they had of Charlene Cartwright again. Soon this woman’s face would be more familiar to people than the governor’s. The woman had once been pretty, Natalie thought, but now she was beyond that, an odd thing to think, but it was true. She touched her fingertip to the smoker’s lines fanning out from her eyes, the deep scored lines about her mouth. There was a message in the woman’s eyes, wide pale green eyes, flat as a stagnant pond. Those eyes scared Natalie to her toes. The message was, quite simply, both the promise of death of anyone she wanted gone and the acceptance of her own death, should it be demanded of her.

  She realized she’d seen eyes like Charlene Cartwright’s once before during a six-month stint in a psych ward. She hadn’t wanted to think about what was going on behind those eyes.

  —

  Ramsey was asleep, finally, an exhausted sleep that worried Nurse Natalie Chase a bit, but then she managed a reassuring smile at all his family hovering around his bed. “Don’t worry. His vital signs are fine. His football team lost, that’s what flattened him.”

  They all smiled and eased.

  When Dr. Kardak came in a moment later to have the small slice of pumpkin pie he’d been promised, he looked down at the sleeping Ramsey. “I’d say he had too much fun.” He looked over at Sherlock, lifted her hair off the butterfly strips she’d pressed over the sutures, and, thankfully, left them alone. “Still feeling well, I take it, Agent Sherlock?”

  “Fit as a fiddle,” she said, then, “I always wondered why a fiddle was fit? I mean, what does health have to do with a musical instrument?” and Dr. Kardak, forking down a bite of pumpkin pie, swallowed and smiled. “Not a clue.” He looked one last time at the sleeping Ramsey, nodded to the rest of them, and left.

  Sherlock was tired. She wished she could curl up next to Ramsey and take a nice long winter snooze, but she knew it wasn’t to be.

  Savich said, “You look burned out, sweetheart. You ready to go home to bed?”

  “Are you offering another bedtime story, Dillon?”

  He lightly touched his fingers to her cheek, studied her exhausted face. “I think it’s got to be sleep without dessert for you tonight.” He turned to Eve and Harry, who were studying Charlene’s photo.

  Eve said, “A woman, all the time it was a blasted woman. I mean, it was okay for Xu to be Sue for a while, but Charlene Cartwright is giving our sex a bad name. And look at us, Sherlock, you’ve got an aching head, and I’m still nursing the bruises she shot into my Kevlar in the elevator. Do you think she’s nuts?”

  Savich slowly nodded. “She is now. Before she married her husband? If I had to venture a guess, I’d say no.

  “You’re right to be worried about Charlene. Xu has no more reason to be here that I can see, unless he’s too weak to drive. Either way, he’ll be out of the picture for a while unless we’re lucky enough to find him.

  “Charlene’s a different matter. We are her purpose, her focus. She needs this fight or she might as well float off the planet, that or kill herself. But you know, I really don’t think she’ll give it up until we bury her.” He pulled Sherlock close, closed his eyes for a moment.

  He said, “All of us know that informants solve most of our cases. Since her photos are everywhere, we’ve got to hope she stays close.”

  Skyline Motel

  El Cerrito, California

  Nine o’clock Thursday night

  Charlene looked through the glass into the small motel reception office. Her luck was holding. Only one skinny guy was inside, and from the description Joe had given her, it was the same guy who’d been deep in a computer game when Joe had checked in. He said he remembered the kid’s name because it was so weird. Okay, she’d told him, but Jerol wasn’t as weird as Xu, and she was going to call him Joe. He’d smiled up at her. And she’d started singing Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue.”

  She didn’t know where she was taking Joe just yet, but it was too dangerous staying this close to the city any longer, now that his photo was plastered all over the TV. She figured he needed another couple of days before he’d be good for much, not that she needed him to help her, but he was smart, had lots of experience. If he could learn to trust her, maybe they could stay together for some time, like she’d planned to stay with Sonny. She’d be with Sonny now if not for that little kid, Emma. What a snooty name that was. Wasn’t she to blame, too, for Sonny’s being dead? It wasn’t Sonny’s fault he had this problem. The kid shouldn’t have run away from him, selfish little cow, when she knew—Charlene shook her head to get her brain back on track. She was losing herself more often now in her thoughts. She’d think something, and then the thought seemed to grow and change, to branch out in all directions, like a spin-off of a TV show.

  She focused on Joe, and her brain seemed to flip a switch. He really knew these FBI agents, he told her, knew how they thought, knew what they’d do in any given situation. He’d stayed one step ahead of them, no problem, just as she had. But you didn’t know about that little redheaded agent who slammed you down on your face, did you? Without me, the train would have left the station—you’d be on it dressed in shackles and handcuffs.

  He knew that as well as she did, so she didn’t say it out loud. He’d thanked her twice already, and it came easily to him. She found him charming. She’d known Joe for such a short time, and she already liked him a lot better than she’d ever liked her miserable husband, bad memory that he was. Joe said he liked the big diamond on her pinkie finger, and she’d laughed, told him it wasn’t real, told him it was as fake as her vicious long-dead husband who’d given it to her and that’s why she wore it, to remind her of that wonderful day she’d shot his face off. And he’d asked her about the other ring she wore that looked like it belonged to a religious order. She’d fallen silent, fingering the ring, then said, “It belonged to my son, before Ramsey Hunt murdered him.” And that’s when he’d asked her to tell him the whole story.

  When he’d finally fallen into a restless slept last night, she stretched out on the bed beside him and listened to him breathe. She realized she hadn’t slept beside a man in a very long time. It felt strange to hear another’s breathing so close beside her. He woke her up once when he started talking in his sleep. And now she knew something about who and what this man was—not only a killer, as she was, but mixed up with the Chinese—a spy, maybe? And he was piss-in-the-pants afraid of them. I end up with the weirdest people, Charlene thought. Her son was kind of weird, of course, but he wasn’t stupid, he was—off. He hadn’t deserved to die, hadn’t deserved to be murdered by that miserable judge.

  Her familiar rage kicked in, made her mind hiss and cra
ckle. It wasn’t right what happened to Sonny. What had happened to him was the real crime. Imagine a federal judge murdering a man in his hospital bed? And every one of those crooked cops had covered for him, nothing but sympathy for him because of pathetic little Emma. Emma—Charlene hated that name now. She figured the kid and her mom had moved to a safe house after she’d left that phone message for little Molly, since when she’d last driven by, the house was empty. She’d find them, follow the kid from school, maybe.

  Emma, Emma, Emma, the name drummed louder and louder in Charlene’s brain. Get it back, get it back, focus, focus.

  She blinked, again focused on Joe. He’d been thrashing around, a fever, and she’d fetched him three aspirin and some water, and cupped his head. He never opened his eyes, but she already knew his eyes showed a life ancient with violence, far more than she could imagine. As she’d looked down at him in the dim motel room light she realized he might have made a fine son. There was something about Joe Keats, whose real name was Xu—maybe his will to survive, she wasn’t sure—but he impressed her. Regardless of what he was or what he’d done, he was a man who didn’t whine or complain or strike out. Well, she’d see about striking out.

  He healed amazingly fast, she’d thought, when she’d tended his wound earlier. The flesh around the wound was pink, and healthy-looking. She hadn’t seen any blood crusted around the stitches. And now Joe was sleeping. He’d sworn to her he could drive. She’d told him he should get rid of that blue Honda he’d lifted in Sausalito. As soon as they were away, he’d told her—best not to leave it at the motel. Well, if he got himself killed because of that stupid car, it was his business. She was driving her own car, bought and paid for in Stockton from a little old man going into a nursing home.

  The bell tinkled when Charlene pushed open the door and strolled into the motel office, cash in her hand. Jerol was sitting behind a counter loaded down with piles of brochures for local sights. Joe was spot-on about him—Jerol was playing a computer game, all his attention on some military figures fighting on the screen, its gunshots, loud bangs, and booms punctuated by his grunts and cheers.