Split Second

CHAPTER 45

Savich said to Ruth as he slipped another hospital pillow under Sherlock’s head, “When Mr. Maitland got off the phone with Director Mueller tonight, he said the director wasn’t pleased, and that’s a whopper of an understatement. He can’t figure out how it all got so screwed up. I told Mr. Maitland I was having a hard time figuring that out, too, except then a huge herd of drunk people stampeding around flashed clear in my mind. Luckily, Mr. Maitland said he wouldn’t let the director reassign the case.”

His heart nearly stopped when Sherlock said clearly, “I should have taken her down in the bar.”

Not in this lifetime. Savich smiled, leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Next time I’m thinking knockout gas for the whole bar, everyone down and out, including Kirsten and Comafield. How do you feel, sweetheart?”

She thought about it. “Like my throat is on fire and someone hollowed out my stomach with a big scoop. What’d they do to me?”

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that,” he said. “Go back to sleep, okay? You’ll feel fine in the morning.” To his surprise and relief, she did. She whispered something, but he couldn’t make out the words. He’d wanted to ask her how she could drink that beer, knowing it was drugged, but that could wait.

Savich left Ruth to keep watch over Sherlock and walked to the waiting room to talk to the agents sitting there, drinking coffee and looking flat-out depressed. He said, “Look, guys, there’s no reason for you to hang around any longer. It’s after two in the morning. Go home and get some sleep. I’ll see everyone tomorrow at the office. Don’t forget to make all your bedtime prayers for Comafield’s continued existence on this planet. He’s our one precious lead. We’ll discuss the operation tomorrow.”

Jack Crowne said, “The plan was fine, except for that mob of people, most of them so drunk they barely realized they could have been shot dead.”

“We couldn’t have worked it any worse,” Ollie Hamish said.

Jack’s cell blasted out toe-tapping salsa. It was his fiancée, Rachel. He was smiling a little as he said hello to her and walked out of the waiting room.

No one left. They spent the next hour going over every detail of what happened, what they could have done differently, until all of them were so tired they couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say.

At three a.m. Dr. Oliver Pendergrass, his green scrubs dotted with blood, strode into the waiting room. In a surprising British accent, he said immediately, “He made it through surgery.”

There was a collective sigh of relief.

Dr. Pendergrass continued: “It amazes me what damage a single small bullet can do to the human body. That scrap of metal caused a great deal of injured bowel, I’m afraid, and I had to remove a good length of it. We’ll see how he does. The major risk now is overwhelming infection, in his belly and in his blood. The next few days will tell.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Savich said. “You and your staff should be aware there will be police at his door and in the hospital during his stay.”

Dr. Pendergrass said, “Yes, I thought as much. By the way, the anesthesiologist said Mr. Comafield was involved with this woman I’ve seen plastered all over the TV—Ted Bundy’s daughter?”

“That’s right,” Savich said. “I know it’s tough to get your brain around that one.”

Dr. Pendergrass said, “Involved how? Is he related to her in some way?”

Ruth said, “Not related but involved, I guess is the best word, and that’s why it’s so important he live—we’re hoping he can tell us where to find her.”

Savich asked, “When do you think he’ll be able to talk to us, Dr. Pendergrass?”

Dr. Pendergrass turned to him. “Sorry, Agent Savich, but he’s been in recovery only five minutes.” He looked down at his oversized watch. “I’d say he might be fully conscious soon, but I doubt he will have his brain together enough to answer your questions. Why don’t you get some sleep and come back here maybe six hours from now?”

Savich wasn’t about to leave Sherlock, but he ordered the rest of the agents home. He had no worries about Sean, who was sleeping at Simon and Lily’s house.

One by one, they rose and shrugged into their coats. “Go home. I want you guys fresh tomorrow, your brains in gear. Don’t come back here, go on into the office about noon. I’ll be there when I can. Coop, you and Lucy meet me here at nine, but call me first to make sure Comafield is still breathing.”

Savich walked back to Sherlock’s room, listened to her even breathing for a while, then eyed the big chair beside her bed. No reason he couldn’t snooze for a while.

He fell asleep immediately, her hand lying limply in his.