Backfire

62

Judge Sherlock’s home

Pacific Heights, San Francisco

Thursday night

Savich punched off his cell. He watched Sean happily playing an NFL video game with his grandmother, who knew squat about football, and he was winning. He wondered if Sean was smart enough to be on the 49ers’ side in the game and not the Redskins’. He leaned down and said quietly to Sherlock, “Cheney said they’re getting about fifty calls an hour on the hotline with sightings of Xu and/or Charlene. The SFPD has provided some manpower to sift through the calls, since the field office hasn’t the staff to do it.”

“At least we can discount the calls that have Xu walking around, since he isn’t,” Sherlock said. She rubbed her hands over her arms.

“Cold?”

“No, I guess someone walked over my grave. I wonder where that saying comes from. It’s pretty gruesome.”

“But descriptive. What did you feel?”

“I’m worried that something bad’s going to happen, Dillon. Soon.”

He didn’t say anything. He pulled her to her feet, then sat down and brought her down on his lap and held her. He knew she was right, something bad had to happen, with two armed and desperate people out there, their pictures all over TV.

After they got Sean bathed and buttoned into his Spider-Man pajamas, they got him down but, unfortunately, not out. He couldn’t stop talking. He was too excited about how he’d stomped his grandmother at NFL football. He had, to Savich’s surprise, gone for the Patriots. Savich finally sang him his favorite song of all time, guaranteed to put him out by the end of the first verse-“You’ve Got a Friend in Me” from Toy Story.

Sherlock was grinning when Sean’s eyes closed. “Every time,” she whispered.

They were getting ready for bed when Savich’s cell rang.

“Savich here.”

He was quiet, listening, his expression unchanging, but Sherlock saw his eyes darken. The bad something had happened.

She looked down at her watch. It was an hour and a half short of midnight on Thanksgiving night.