Tail Spin

TailSpin

CATHERINE COULTER

To my crackerjack spouse, Anton. You are beloved.

C.C.

To my nephew, David Steffens, M.D., MHS, Professor of Psychiatry and Medicine at

Duke University Medical Center.

Thank you for the compelling suggestion.

I hope I dealt well with it.

ONE

Black Rock Lake Oranack, Maryland

Friday night

She thought she swallowed because her throat burned hot, as if splashed with sharp acid, but she wasn’t sure because she couldn’t think clearly. Her mind felt dark, as heavy and thick as chains, and she knew to her soul there was violence just beyond it. She smelled something rancid, oil with a layer of rot and decay. What was that smell? What did it mean? Her brain wasn’t clear enough yet to figure it out. But she knew she had to, had to fight it or—what? I’ll die, that’s what. I’ve got to get myself together, I’ve got to wake up, or I’ll die.

The smell grew stronger, and she wanted to vomit. She knew she had to be awake or she’d choke to death. She had to move, to wake up.

She swallowed again, nearly heaved when the acid in her throat mixed with that rancid smell. She tried to breathe lightly, concentrated all her energy on opening her eyes, on feeling her body on tearing herself out of the black shroud where she was unable to move or speak. Her head felt heavy, her throat burned, and her mind—where was her mind? There, gnawing at the edges of her brain, were sharp hits of pain and fear, sweeping away the confusion, coming closer, breaking through the numbness.

She heard voices. Mr. Cullifer’s voice? She didn’t think so; his voice was very distinctive, like wet gravel underfoot. But she couldn’t make out who they were or what they were saying, if they were male or female. But she knew that what the voices were saying was bad. For her.

The smell was so strong it burned her eyes and her nose. Suck it in, suck it in, get yourself together. She breathed in deeply, ignored the nausea, and at last she felt her brain jitter, felt edges of consciousness spear up, tear through the black.

It was dead fish she smelled, overwhelming now, and the smell of boats, of diesel fumes overlaying wet.

They were picking her up—who were they?—carrying her, her feet, her arms, and she breathed in the fetid odor. Keep breathing, keep breathing. She heard wooden planks creak, heard night sounds— crickets, an owl, the lapping of water.

Her eyes flew open when she went airborne. She hit the water hard on her back. The slap of pain snapped her back into her brain and her body. Instinct made her draw in a big breath before the water splashed over her face, closed over her head, before she was slowly dragged to the bottom. Move, move. But she couldn’t. Though her hands weren’t tied, a rope was wrapped around her chest to hold her arms at her sides. Her feet were tied and tethered to something heavy—a block of cement, she knew that instinctively. Too many Mafia movies. They didn’t just want her to drown, they wanted her to disappear forever, like she’d never existed, never come into their lives.

She didn’t want to die. I’m not going to die.

She was tied to the cement with the same thick rope that bound her ankles tightly together. She could do this, she could. She quickly shimmied away the rope around her chest, then her fingers went to work. They were clumsy, but it didn’t matter, she didn’t want to die, and she worked frantically. Surprisingly, she could see in the water, knew it wasn’t all that deep because she sensed the moonlight above, and it was enough. She dug her fingernails under the knot and patiently, so patiently, worked it loose. Her chest began to burn. She ignored it, concentrated on the knots.

Because she’d been the captain of her swim team in college, because she knew how to control her breathing to maximum effect, she knew her time was running out. The drug she’d ingested hadn’t helped. She knew she couldn’t last much longer. It was so hard to keep her mouth shut, to keep from breathing. Her eyes were blurring, the water shimmering, the pressure in her chest building and building until it nearly burst her open.

I’m going to drown, I’m going to drown. The knot came loose. She kicked off the cement block and shot to the surface. When her head cleared, she wanted to haul in a huge gulp of air, but forced herself to take short, quiet breaths through her nose. She had to hold very still, trying not to ripple the water for fear they were still there, staring down at where they’d thrown her in, watching for bubbles, waiting, waiting until they knew she couldn’t still be alive. They’d wait, oh yes, they’d wait to make sure they’d erased her.

Her brain was in full gear again. She heard the light lapping of water against the pilings of a wooden pier. They’d walked out onto the pier and thrown her out into the water, believing it deep enough. She eased back under the water and swam under the pier to hide behind the pilings.

She surfaced very slowly, very quietly, wanting to suck in so much air she’d never run out again, but she only let her face clear the surface. She forced herself to take calm, light breaths. She was alive. Slowly, her breaths became deeper and deeper. She filled her lungs. It felt wonderful.

She heard voices again, but couldn’t understand any words because they were moving away now. Men? Women? She couldn’t tell, she only knew there were two of them. She heard feet clomping on the wooden pier, heard a car engine, heard the car drive away. She swam out from under the pier and saw the taillights of a car in the distance.

Good. They thought they’d killed her.

How had they drugged her? For a moment she couldn’t think, couldn’t remember, couldn’t picture what she’d eaten or drunk earlier. She’d eaten dinner by herself, in the kitchen. The wine, she thought, the bottle of red on the table that she’d opened. Where had it come from? She didn’t know, hadn’t paid any attention.

She smiled. What none of them had realized was that she’d drunk only a bit of the wine. Any more and she’d be lying dead at the bottom of this lake. No one would know where she was. She’d just be gone. Forever.

She pulled herself out of the water, shivered as she slapped her hands against her arms and looked around. There were no houses, no lakeside cottages with narrow docks and tethered boats, only a skinny two-lane road winding off into the distant darkness. She shuddered with cold and shock, but it didn’t matter. She was alive.

She came upon a sign: BLACK ROCK LAKE. Where was Black Rock Lake?

It didn’t matter. She had two legs that worked fairly well. She began to walk in the same direction as the car.

It seemed like forever, but it was maybe only fifteen minutes when she saw the lights of a small town—ORANACK, MARYLAND, according to the small black-and-white sign.

It was late. She didn’t know exactly how late because her watch had died in the water. She walked through the deserted town, her eyes on a neon sign that beamed out in bright orange—mel’s diner— all glass so you could see back to the swinging door to the kitchen. Two people sat in a booth next to the glass, a limp waitress standing beside them, a pen poised over her pad. She saw a taxi sitting outside the diner, saw the cabbie at the counter drinking coffee and she smiled.

When the cab pulled into Jimmy’s driveway, she asked the driver to wait and prayed they hadn’t taken her purse. The alarm wasn’t set, thank God, and the window in her bedroom was still cracked open. She found her purse downstairs on the kitchen counter, where she’d left it earlier that night. Was it really only three, four hours ago? It seemed a lifetime.

Thirty minutes later, she took one final look at Jimmy’s big redbrick Georgian house, built in the thirties, the centerpiece of this well-tended neighborhood, nestled among huge oak trees on Pinchon Lane. She’d never had the chance to think of him as her father, to call him Father; she wondered now if he would remain Jimmy forever.

She’d had only six weeks with him.

She drove her white Charger through the quiet streets until she reached the Beltway. She knew where she was going and also knew she’d be crazy to try to drive through the night, because she was so exhausted she was shaking. But she had no choice. She ate two candy bars, felt a brief spurt of energy. She had to think, had to plan. She had to hide. She forced herself to drive through the night, surviving on hot black coffee and a half dozen more candy bars and, at eight a.m., stopped at the Cozy Boy Motel off the highway in Richmond.

She awoke fourteen hours later, groggy at first, every muscle in her bodyprotesting, but her strength was surging back. Fear, she thought, an excellent energizer.

She wasn’t about to go to her mother’s house. She wasn’t even going to call her. No way would she put them in that kind of danger. She realized with a sort of depressed relief that she had no close friends to call, to tell them not to worry about her. She hadn’t kept up with friends she’d made in Richmond. As far as she could think, there was no one to even wonder where she was. Mrs. Riffin, Jimmy’s longtime housekeeper, was even gone now, having retired the week after Jimmy’s death. No one, she thought, no one to worry, to wonder. Jimmy’s lawyer might wonder in a sort of intellectual way where she was, but she doubted he’d press it. As for Jimmy’s siblings, if they believed she was tied to a concrete block at the bottom of a lake, they certainly wouldn’t say anything.

Could Quincy and Laurel have been involved? Jimmy’s brother and sister—unbelievably, her uncle and aunt—hated her, wanted her gone—but murder? Yes, she thought, they were capable of anything. Maybe there were others who didn’t want her around, but murder? She always came back to Quincy and Laurel.

She meandered along back roads in Virginia until she ended up the following morning at a small motel in Waynesboro. She knew where she was going, but then what? She watched local TV news, listened to the local radio, and thought. She heard a retrospective of Jimmy’s political life on PBS. Even though he hadn’t been a liberal, they’d been mostly positive in their assessment of him. They probably hadn’t meant to, but Jimmy came across as a larger-than-life figure, charismatic, dedicated to public service. If only they knew, she thought, Jimmy had been so much more. And there was the other thing. No, she wouldn’t think about that right now. She couldn’t. It would wait.

She listened to the vice president speak of Jimmy’s ex-wife, his two daughters, but nothing about her, nothing about his other daughter, the one he hadn’t known existed until six weeks before he died. She leaned down to rub her ankle where the rope had been bound so tightly, and for an instant, she couldn’t breathe. She smacked her palm against the steering wheel, got herself together. She looked out over the dark Virginia fields, the line of trees, unmoving black sentinels in the night, and thought, If you two maniacs tried to kill me, then I hope you’re happy, I hope you’re making toasts to each other on my removal, the one person who can make your lives very unpleasant. Yes, drink up.

Until she was ready to take them down. TWO

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Monday morning

Sherlock took Jimmy Maitland’s call at 7:32 while she was pouring Cheerios into Sean’s Transformers cereal bowl, Astro sitting beside his chair, tongue and tail wagging, ready for his share. The terrier loved Cheerios.

“It’s about Jackson Crowne,” Maitland said. “And it isn’t good Sherlock.”

“What is it, sir?”

Sherlock began shaking her head, her face going pale. Savich’s head snapped up. He poured milk over the Cheerios and talked to Sean to distract him, but he was aware of every expression on his wife’s face. He gave Astro a handful of Cheerios in his dog bowl.

“But you don’t know for certain, sir?” she asked, her voice thread thin.

Maitland said, “No, not for sure, but it doesn’t look good, Sherlock. Add Dr. MacLean to the mix—well, you can imagine how worried everyone is. A helicopter is waiting for you and Savich at Quantico. Get there as soon as you can. We’re not sending out Search and Rescue right now, that would lead directly to the media and that would mean too much information about Dr. MacLean getting out to thewrong people. If you don’t locate him, we have no choice but to call in Search and Rescue. Funny thing is, Jack’s piloting a Cessna search-and-rescue plane. I know you understand. I’m counting on you two.”

Sherlock understood all too well, but she didn’t like it. She would have damned the media, said to hell with concerns for Dr. MacLean’s safety, and launched a full-bore Search and Rescue in ten minutes. But Mr. Maitland could be right—if this wasn’t a malfunction — an accident—then that meant sabotage. As she carefully laid down the kitchen phone, watching Sean studiously plowing through his cereal, she got herself together, said calmly, “It’s Jack. His plane went down in southeast Kentucky, his may day was near a small town called Parlow in the Appalachians, an hour from the Virginia border. As you know, Jack’s got Dr. MacLean with him. Mr. Maitland wants us there as soon as possible, find out what’s going on. No Search and Rescue right now. It doesn’t sound ...” She swallowed, looked again at Sean when her voice cracked.

Sean’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth, and his head came up, his father’s eyes staring at her. “Mama, what’s wrong?”

“It’s one of our agents, Sean, he could be in some trouble. Your papa and I are going to go find him and bring him home.”

Sean nodded. “All right then. You find him, Mama. Bring him over, maybe he can play Pajama Sam with me.”

“I will, sweetie,” Sherlock said, and gave him a loud kiss, then ran her hand through his black hair, his father’s hair. She couldn’t help herself and kissed him again, this time even louder. Sean smacked his lips back at her. Astro barked. “Astro, too, Mama,” Sean shouted. Sherlock let Astro lick the powder off her cheek.

“Maybe your mama will let me ride shotgun,” Savich said, and hugged and kissed his son, then nodded to Gabriella, Sean’s nanny. “We’ll call you, Gabby, when we find out what’s going on.”

Ten minutes later Gabrielle walked them to the front door. She laid her hand lightly on Sherlock’s arm. “I met Jack Crowne once,” she said, “when I brought some papers to your office. He asked me if I liked to throw a football as much as Sean did, and I told him my spiral rivals Tom Brady’s. He laughed. I hope you find him. This other man, this Dr. MacLean, is he all that important?”

“I’d call him more a lightning rod,” Sherlock said. “We’ll find Jack, I promise,” but she knew it didn’t look good, for either Jack or his passenger. THREE

Monday morning

Rachael stared at the sign, at the bright red script letters against the white background: parlow, home of the red wolves.

Almost home, Rachael thought, and laughed at that thought. Home? Parlow, Kentucky, a place she hadn’t seen since she was a stick-skinny twelve-year-old, with braces on her teeth and hair down to her butt because Uncle Gillette hadn’t wanted her ever to cut it. Her visits had been to Uncle Gillette’s now-magnificent home in Slipper Hollow, a stretch of land five miles northeast of Parlow, well off the beaten track, unknown even to many locals. Uncle Gillette liked his privacy, especially since returning home from the Gulf War in the early nineties. Maybe too much.

It looked like she was going to have to walk the last mile. Rachael didn’t kick her Dodge Charger; it had gotten her this far, after all. It sat on the side of the road, dirty white with a muddied-up license plate, deader than a doornail, whatever that was.

She was closing in on the back end of nowhere, and that was a wonderful thing. She had only one ancient duffel bag stuffed with clothes she’d flung into it the night she drove away from Jimmy’s house in Chevy Chase. She’d driven again all through the night and now, at seven fifteen in the morning, she was getting tired. As far as she could tell, no one had followed her on her slow nighttime drives across Virginia. She looked bat k again at her faithful Charger, which hadn’t given her a single problem since she’d bought it three years before—until now.

Calm down, you’re nearly there —to Slipper Hollow, where Uncle Gillette lived, protected by the densely forested mountains ranging as far as you could see. Their peaks were wreathed in early morning fog, blanketing the light dusting of snow until the sun melted it away. They were comforting, those mountains, when, as a child, she’d hidden among the thick green leaves on a branch of an ancient oak tree, staring at that immense stretch of mountains and hillocks and towering boulders, wondering what was beyond. Only giants, she’d believed at age four, and maybe, if she was lucky, some dogs and cats.

She clearly remembered that summer day when her mother told her, It’s time we were on our own. That was it. She’d helped her mother and a reluctant Uncle Gillette pack their old Chrysler with their most prized belongings, and they’d headed out at sunrise. She’d missed Slipper Hollow and Uncle Gillette to her bones, counted off days between visits, and there’d been a lot of them in the early days.

But it had been almost a year since she’d last seen Uncle Gillette. At least she knew he’d be there. Uncle Gillette never left Slipper Hollow.

Time to get a move on. She wanted to be there before noon—if she could get her car fixed that fast. Her stomach growled, and in her mind Rachael saw Mrs. Jersey, the best cook in Kentucky, according to her mother, and the owner of Monk’s Cafe, and wondered if she was still there. She’d seemed ancient to a twelve-year-old. Ah, but those hot blueberry scones she made, Rachael could still remember the taste, and those hot blueberries burning her tongue. Monk’s Cafe opened early back then, for truckers, and maybe it still did. If Mrs. Jersey was still there, Rachael prayed she wouldn’t recognize her, prayed no one in Parlow would recognize the twelve-year-old girl in the woman, and hoped she’d let Rachael use the landline since cells didn’t work out here in the boondocks, and tell her who the best mechanic was in Parlow. She wasn’t going to call Uncle Gillette; she was careful now, very careful. She had no intention of leaving any trail, no matter that they believed her dead, no matter that as faras she knew, they’d never heard of Parlow, Kentucky, or Slipper Hollow.

I’m safe. I’m dead, after all.

She shivered, remembering the slapping cold of the water, and pulled her leather jacket closer. She’d forgotten how cold it was here in the early morning even in the middle of June. She looked around again at the fog-shrouded mountains, a grayish blue in the early morning light. But this morning she wasn’t moved by the incredible raw beauty, she only wanted to get home. She wanted to plan, and Uncle Gillette would help her. He was very smart, a marine captain. There was no such thing as an ex-marine, he’d said once with a snap in his voice, and she’d never forgotten.

But her Charger had let her down on the final lap. Rachael hitched her duffel onto her shoulder, looked toward Parlow, seeing houses dot the distance among trees and hills and narrow winding roads.

She’d taken three steps when she froze in her tracks at a distant noise, a sputtering sound, an engine coughing, and it was coming closer.

She looked up but didn’t see anything. Maybe it was a car coming on another road, maybe it was ... No, no way could it be them. She drew a deep breath, then continued to scan the sky. No, what she’d heard—well, she didn’t know what she’d heard.

But still she didn’t move. She stared toward the end of long, narrow Cudlow Valley, cut like a knife slice through the mountains. She stood there, her hand shading her eyes from the slivers of sunlight trying to break through the fog.

And there it was, a single-engine plane coming over the low mountains at the far end of the valley, jerking and heaving, black smoke billowing out near the tail. The plane was in trouble, dear God, it was going to crash, no, the pilot was pulling the bucking plane to line up at the far end of the narrow valley. She saw flames shooting out through the smoke, moving up toward the wings. He wasn’t going to make it. She watched, couldn’t take her eyes off that plane even as she began to run toward it.

Was Cudlow Valley long enough and flat enough to land a plane? She had no idea, she’d never learned to fly. She watched the wings straighten, pictured the pilot willing his plane to a sloping trajectory, lower and lower. She held her breath, and prayed.

An explosion rocked the small plane, nearly flipping it over, and it began to spiral, out of control. FOUR

Unbelievably, the pilot wrenched it back in line. The next second, the engine went dead and the small single-engine plane dropped like a stone. She knew she was going to watch him die, there was no way he could bring it in. But somehow, somehow, he caught an air current and managed to glide the dying plane forward and down until the wheels finally touched the ground. The plane bounced and lurched, the front came up, then slammed down again. It jerked and shuddered before coming to a rolling stop not fifty feet from where she stood at the very end of the valley. Smoke gushed out and the flames licked higher.

Rachael started running toward the plane even as she saw the pilot kick open the door and struggle to drag an unconscious man across the seat and out the narrow door. She didn’t know how he did it, but he did. He hauled the man over his shoulder and began to run away from the plane.

He stumbled and went down. The unconscious man flew over his head and landed hard, his head striking a clump of rocks. He didn’t move. The plane exploded into a bright orange ball, flames gushing high into the air, spewing parts of the plane in every direction. She saw the pilot pull himself up and stagger toward the unconscious man. What looked like part of the tail struck his leg and he went down, and this time he stayed down.

It was terrifying, Rachael thought—life or death, all decided in under two minutes. She’d had maybe another minute.

She reached the unconscious man first and dropped to her knees. He lay on his back, motionless, eyes closed. He was slight, and older, near fifty, and there was blood on his head and all over his chest. She pressed her fingers to his throat. He was alive, but his pulse was faint. She lightly shook him. “Can you open your eyes?”

He didn’t move. She sat back on her heels. Without thinking, she took off her leather jacket and covered him as best she could.

Her head whipped up when she heard the pilot groan. She was at his side in a moment, looking down at his smoke-blackened face, blood matting the dark hair against the side of his head, a thick trickle of blood snaking down from his left ear. There was blood oozing out of a tear in his pants where part of the tail had slashed into him. He wasn’t moving.

Please don’t die, please don’t die. She couldn’t stand any more death.

Rachael lightly laid her hand on his shoulder, shook him slightly, but he didn’t move. She felt his arms, his legs. Nothing seemed broken, but inside he could be seriously hurt. He was much younger than the other man, around her age, big and fit. He wore a black leather jacket similar to hers over a white shirt and tie, black pants, low black boots. She lightly slapped his face. “Please, wake up.”

He moaned, jerked onto his back. She leaned close, slapped his cheek again. “Come on, wake up. You can do it. I can’t lift you by myself and I’m alone. The other man is unconscious and he needs your help. Wake up. Please.” She slapped his face harder.

A hand grabbed her wrist. She yelped but he didn’t release her.

Jack opened his eyes. Long straight hair brushed his face, hair the color of sunlight. Blond and brown and gold, with one skinny braid running down the side, and he tried to lift his hand to touch it, but he couldn’t get his arm up there. He said, “I like the braid. I’ve never seen that before. You pack quite a punch.”

“Yes, well, sorry, but you have to wake up. I’ve got to get you and your friend medical help. Where are you hurt? What happened?”

To her surprise, he actually smiled. “Am I dead? Are you an angel? No, you’re not an angel, your hair’s too pretty and that braid—angels don’t wear braids like that. And you’ve got dirt on your nose.”

“I’d like to be an angel but I guess that would mean you’re imagining me, and thank God you’re not. I’m Rachael.” She swiped at her nose. “There’s a cut that’s bleeding above your left temple; it’s only a trickle now. I saw part of the plane tail hit you, knock you down. Your right thigh is bleeding pretty bad. We need to put pressure on it.”

“Use my tie.”

She pulled off his bright red tie with little colorful squiggles on it and eased it under his leg. “Tell me when you think it’s tight enough,” and she pulled.

“That’ll get it. Knot it good. Anything broken?”

“No, not as far as I can tell, but I’m not a doctor.”

“Usually broken bones tend to be pretty obvious.”

“There’s your innards. Anything could be going on inside you.” He was silent a moment, communing, she supposed, with his insides. “Feels okay, so far.”

“Good. I’m not a pilot, either, but I watched you bring that plane down. I have no idea how you managed it, but you did. That was amazing. I’ve never been so scared. Well, maybe one other time.” Just last Friday night, as a matter of fact. Insanely, she wanted to laugh.

He looked up at her, managed a smile. “Hey, since I walked away—well, ran away—I won’t call it a crash, but it was definitely what I’d term a forced landing.” He frowned, and she realized he was barely hanging on. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw this valley. I thought for sure we’d end up slamming into a mountain and some archaeologist would find us in a couple hundred years.”

“I don’t think you should count on that much luck ever happening again in your life. I’m sorry to tell you, but your plane’s pretty much destroyed. So’s your cool tie, now that it’s got blood all over it.”

He dropped her wrist. “A bomb.” His voice was faint now. “No, no, don’t fade out on me again. You’ve got to wake up, you’ve got to help me.” She leaned real close. “Look at me. What’s your name? That’s it, concentrate on your name. You can do it.” A bomb? He said there was a bomb? Well now, wasn’t that great, just great.

“My name’s Jack.”

“Okay, Jack. You hang in. We’re going to get to my car, you’ll at least be safe there and warmer than you are here.”

Jack Crowne thought his head was going to burst, it hurt so bad. As for his leg, it nagged and throbbed, but he could deal with it. If he could have one more spot of luck, maybe that piece of plane hadn’t sliced him all that deep. “The Marauder—she’s a good plane,” he said, then cursed under his breath. “Was.”

His brain focused. “Didn’t you say something about my friend? You found another man? Older, on the small side? Wearing a silly pink-and-blue bow tie?”

She lightly touched her hand to his shoulder. “Yes, he’s over there. He’s unconscious, but alive. There’s blood all over his chest and on his head. I didn’t check for broken bones. I’m sorry, but I’m alone. Once I get you to my car, I’ll help him.”

“No, no, I’m pulling myself together. We must get to him now. My cell, let me get my cell, I’ll call for help.”

“Sorry, that’s not an option. Cells don’t work out here what with all the mountains and no towers. We’ll take care of him, don’t worry. All right now, don’t close your eyes. I really can’t lift you by myself. We’ll go over to help your friend.”

Jack gritted his teeth and thought about Timothy, who could be dying right now, right here, in this empty valley in the middle of nowhere. With her help he managed to ease up onto his elbows. He looked around. “I’m still in Kentucky?”

“Yes, close to the Virginia border. You managed to land your plane in the Cudlow Valley, the only break in the mountains for miles and miles. If you hadn’t made it here, well... it doesn’t matter, you did. Best not to dwell on that right now. Luck and skill, you had both. Now, your friend—”

“Help me to him and I’ll carry him to your car.” Rachael couldn’t imagine his helping anybody, but she clasped him around his chest and pulled. He came up to his knees, plastered against her. She paused for a moment, his head dipped to rest on her shoulder. “You okay?”

“The world’s spinning and I want to vomit, but yeah, I’m okay. Give me another minute.” Jack breathed slow and shallow. Thankfully, the nausea passed. His head pounded, sharp and heavy, but he could deal with that since it was no longer blinding him. “Okay, let’s go. I’ve got to see to Timothy.”

It took the better part of five minutes but he was finally standing, walking, Rachael taking as much of his weight as she could without dropping herself. “There’s Timothy. He hasn’t moved.”

With Rachael’s help, Jack knelt beside Dr Timothy MacLean. He checked his pulse, checked his head, then ran his hands over his arms and legs. He handed Rachael her leather jacket. “The blood on his chest—he’s got a good-sized gash, well below his heart, thank God. Doesn’t look deep and the bleeding’s stopped. I’d say he’s also got a couple of broken ribs. As for his head, I know he was unconscious when I got him out of the plane.”

“I saw him hit his head on some rocks.”

He cursed. “It’s my fault, I stumbled and he went flying.”

“Yeah, right, blaming yourself sure makes sense.”

He narrowed his eyes at her even as he took more deep breaths. She saw the fierce concentration on his face, watched him suck in a deep breath and lean down. He managed to pull the man up and over his shoulder. He staggered, but kept his feet. “I’m glad he’s on the small side,” he said, panting. “All right, Rachael, if you could ease yourself under my left arm, let’s give it a go.”

He wasn’t all that steady on his feet, but together they managed one step, then another and another. “My car’s on the side of the road, over there. She up and died on me and I don’t know a thing about cars.”

“I do,” he said, gritting his teeth, wanting to puke again. Timothy didn’t weigh much, but still it was nearly 140 pounds of dead weight. Jack stopped, waited until the nausea passed, which it thankfully did again. “Okay, what is it? Twenty more feet. I can do that.”

He did. She opened the back door and he eased his friend onto the backseat. He shrugged off his leather jacket and handed it to her. She was able to nearly cover Timothy completely with the two jackets. Jack leaned against the car, his eyes closed, the blood now caked on the left side of his face. “What time is it?”

“Going on eight o’clock.”

He said, still not opening his eyes, “Loosen the tie around my leg.”

She did. “Good, the bleeding’s stopped.”

His head listed to the side, then he straightened. “All right, let me take a look at your car. Maybe it’s something easy I can fix.”

Probably not, Rachael thought. Nothing was easy in her life. FIVE

As Jack straightened, he grazed his head on the raised hood and thought he’d pass out. He grabbed the dirty fender, closed his eyes tight, and let the world spin. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, being laid flat again; it might save his head from exploding. He felt her arms come around his chest to prop him up. She said, “Hold still for a moment. That’s right, I’ve got you.”

When he finally got himself together and pulled away, she said, “Are you okay?”

“Better days,” he said, “like yesterday. Thanks.”

She grinned up at him, and wanted to say, Me too. “Can you tell what’s wrong with my car? Can you fix it?”

“Any chance you’re out of gas?”

“Nope. I filled up in Hamilton.”

“Okay, the hoses look okay. Crank the car.”

She turned the ignition, but nothing happened. She tried again, still nothing.

“Okay, there’s no fuel coming out of the fuel line. Your fuel pump’s busted. It’s got to be replaced. I wish I could jury-rig it, but I can’t. That sign says we’re in a town called Parlow. Is it big enough to have a decent mechanic?”

She nodded. “Yeah, population’s maybe three thousand. It’s only a mile up the road. Is a fuel pump major?”

“Nah, and it’s not too expensive.”

“I was starting to walk to Parlow when I heard your plane coughing and sputtering. You said it was a bomb. I don’t understand.”

Now didn’t he have a big mouth? “I was probably wrong. It’s over, don’t worry about it.” He tried his cell again, knowing there wasn’t magically going to be a signal when there hadn’t been one the last dozen times he’d tried.

Sure enough, no signal.

She said, “Right, I won’t worry my pretty little head about it. You moron.”

He somehow managed a grin over the grinding pain in his head. “No one’s called me a moron since I forgot the condoms and Louise Draper walked out on me.”

“Well, there you go,” she said. “Forget the cell phone. It’s the mountains, and too few towers out here, like I said.”

“Okay, then, Parlow, Kentucky, here we come.” He looked once again at Timothy, still unconscious on the backseat, his face ghostly pale. But Timothy was alive, thank God, and Jack just had to keep him that way. At present, that was a pretty big joke—he was nearly ready to fall facedown onto the blacktop.

This was all she needed, Rachael thought, but what else could she do? She couldn’t leave this man here to fend for himself. Okay, so she’d arrive at Slipper Hollow later rather than sooner, no problem. Since Uncle Gillette didn’t know she was coming, he wouldn’t worry. She said, “I don’t think there’s anything more either of us can do except make it to Parlow and get some help.”

“Have you been here before?”

For the barest instant, her face froze before she said, “No, I haven’t.”

He studied her through a haze of pain, watching her hair curtain her face as she looked down, that braid cupping her cheek, then slowly nodded. “It’s okay, I haven’t, either.” He wasn’t stupid, he’d seen the shock of panic in her eyes, heard the lie, and wasn’t that strange? Who cared if she’d been in a little town in Kentucky? He ran his fingers through his dark hair, making it stand on end. “Parlow’s bound to have medical facilities, an ambulance.”

“Seems likely,” she said, and the way she said it—too studied— another lie.

Parlow would have a police chief or a sheriff, Jack thought. He really didn’t want to involve local law enforcement, but given his and Timothy’s current condition, he doubted he’d have a choice.

Walking beside the two-lane road was slow going. Jack was a big man and she had to take a lot of his weight to keep him upright and moving. After twenty steps, Rachael, now panting, said, “Stop a moment.” She leaned him against an oak tree beside the road. “This rest stop is as much for me as it is for you. Okay, okay, we don’t have much farther to go, we can do it.”

“Sorry, I forgot, what’s your name again?”

“Rachael—ah, well, last names aren’t really important, are they?”

His cop antennae flashed red again even though the Devil was pounding nails into his head. At least his leg was hurting a bit less so his brain could function a bit more. He wanted to ask her who she was and what she was afraid of, but he said, “I guess that would depend on why you don’t want to tell me. Do you think I’m going to hit on you and you don’t want me to follow you home?”

Hit on her? Her? “I guess your head injury is making you blind.”

“Oh no, a man is never blind when it comes to a woman. Well, unless he’s dead.”

She laughed, shook her head at him, pushed her hair behind her ear. The braid fell forward to dangle alongside her cheek again. He’d have told her it was sexy, if he’d had the strength. She said, “I saved your bacon—drop it. Well, to be honest here, you saved your own bacon, but then you dropped it and I picked it up. I figure you owe me.”

“Yes, ma’am, I surely do. I wonder if Parlow has a hospital.”

“Oh no—well, who knows? There’s probably a community hospital not far from here. We’ll see, won’t we?”

Got you on that one, kiddo.

“Ihope you’re not dangerous,” she said, looking straight ahead, her shoulders and back hurting now from supporting so much of his weight. She looked up to see an amused look on his face. “If you weren’t leaning on me, like a drunk, you would look dangerous with your face all black like a night-ops soldier.”

“Nah,” he said, swallowing down bile and wishing he could simply fall over into those nice soft-looking bushes on the side of the road. No, he had to get help for Timothy, but the dragging pain was pulling him under. Concussion, he knew, remembering too well getting his brains knocked stupid in a college football game. Not pleasant, but he’d get through it.

She said, “Hey, I see a house. We’re nearly there, Jack. Hold on. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me your last name?”

“Nope. Can you help me another fifty yards?”

She was panting hard. “Sure, I was on the high school wrestling team.”

He laughed, the pain in his head flashed hard and hot, and he thought he’d bite the big one right there.

They finally reached the small white house she recognized very well. Two goats eyed them with little interest as they shuffled up the weed-choked drive She remembered dogs, mongrels, a good half dozen, lazing in the sun. Jack said, “Thank the good Lord, I see phone lines.”

Rachael wanted to tell him not to hold his breath, that in her childhood Mr. Gurt had been known for not paying his bills until his creditors camped on his doorstep.

There’s no way Mr. Gurt will recognize me and blurt out my name, none at all. Trouble is, dammit, I’ve never been a good liar, and from Jack’s reaction, I must really suck at it. I’ve got myself back on track, I’ve got to try to sound honest and straightforward, I’ve got to think before I simply bleat out everything. I can do this, I’ve got to, no choice. If it gets back to them somehow that I’m alive, that I’ve been seen, they’ll come after me again.

Rachael didn’t think there was much likelihood of this happening, but they had such power, so many resources, she was afraid to take the chance. No, she would remain dead until she was ready to take them on. Well, first she had to make sure it was Quincy and Laurel, then she’d get them. As for right now, she was safe. You couldn’t get safer than dead. Showtime.

Her knock was answered by Mr. Gurt, now a very old man indeed. He was still wearing ancient blue jeans tucked into scuffed army boots. The same ones? He stood in the open doorway and squinted at them out of suspicious old eyes that didn’t have a hint of recognition. Thank you, God, thank you, God.

But how could he not recognize her when he looked exactly the same to her, down to the sour look on his seamed old face? She looked into those rheumy eyes and realized he had no clue who she was.

“Yeah? What do you two want?”

Seems pretty obvious to me, you old coot, she thought, but since Jack was hanging on by a thread, she pushed her hair back from her face and said, “We’ve had an accident. Could we use your phone? We left our friend unconscious in the car. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

“What’d your husband do, missus, drink too much and drive you off the road?”

“Actually, he fell out of the sky at my feet. Please, sir?” Mr. Gurt huffed, waved them in. Well, this was something. As a kid, she’d been in his house only once, with her mother, to bring Mr. Gurt Christmas cookies.

They stepped into deep shadows and smelled oatmeal and vanilla. She heard a dragging sound that had her heart galloping until she saw a very fat pug trotting toward them, his leash clamped in his mouth, the leather strap dragging along the floor.

“Don’t get yourself in a dither, Marigold, and don’t piddle on the floor. Let’s get the folks on the phone, then I’ll take you out.” He led them into a living room where the smell of fresh lemon wafted in the air. Every surface was covered with old-fashioned lace doilies and antimacassars, yellow with age. He said, “Marigold hates the outdoors, weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Just doing her business makes her nervous so I gotta be with her. Even Oswald and Ruby scare her.”

“Oswald and Ruby?” Rachael asked.

“Two goats chewing on God-knows-what in the front yard. There’s the phone. I paid the bill no more than six weeks ago so the buggers can’t have turned it off yet. I threatened to get me one of them newfangled cellular phones, but the gal at the phone company laughed, said there might not be a signal here until the middle of the century, aeons after I’m croaked. Don’t do no long distance, all right? Marigold, hold your water, I’m coming.”

Jack took the phone out of her hand. “I’m sorry, but this is priority.” He dialed Savich’s cell.

“Savich here.”

“Savich, it’s Jack.”

There was a brief pause. “Jack, let me say it is very good to hear your voice. You okay?”

“A little banged up, but I’ll live.”

“Dr. MacLean?”

“He’s unconscious, smacked his head good when he fell. He’s got a gash on his chest and I think a couple of broken ribs. We had to leave him in the backseat of Rachael’s car. We’re in Parlow, Kentucky, close to the Virginia border.”

“Who’s Rachael?”

“She watched me bring the plane in, helped me get it together.” He looked over at her as he spoke. She was twisting the skinny braid.

“All right. It turns out Parlow is where we’re heading, that was where they marked your mayday.”

“That’s a helicopter rotor I hear. Where are you?”

“We left Quantico fifteen minutes ago. It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to you. Bobby’s heading to a private airfield owned by a Judge Hardesty just off Route 72, close to Parlow. There’ll be a car waiting for us there so we’ll be able to get around. Now, let me give you over to Sherlock before she rips the phone out of my hand.”

“Jack? It’s Sherlock. Mr. Maitland called us around seven-thirty this morning, said you went down—you bozo, do you swear to me you’re okay?”

Jack smiled. “Oh yeah, an angel saved me, but...”

“But what?”

“It’s Timothy. He could be badly hurt. Like I told Savich, he’s lying unconscious in Rachael’s car, which is broken down on the side of the road. We had to leave him there to get help.”

“All right, I’ll make a call, set up getting him medevaced to the closes trauma center. I’ll get back to you. Jack, please tell me there is some sort of mechanical malfunction.” He was aware that Rachael was studying his face, listening to every word he said. He said only, “Very probably not.”

Savich came back on. “Okay we’ll figure it out. I’ll call Mr. Maitland. He’ll get an expert out there to take a look at the plane. You need a doctor, don’t you? Wait, Sherlock’s got the medevac people, and they need to know exactly where Dr. MacLean is. Jack, you there?”

Jack felt his brain wafting away, and what was worse, he welcomed it. “Sherlock? I guess you’d best have Rachael tell you.”

Rachael took the phone from Jack and watched him collapse into one of the ancient, nubby gray easy chairs. She listened, then told the woman the location of her car, adding, “I’m very glad you’re coming because Jack needs help. As he told you, my car broke down, so we’re walking. We’ll meet you in whatever medical facility they have in Parlow. He’s got a concussion, he thinks, and his leg was hurt by a piece of debris from the plane. I’ll stay with him until you get here.”

“Thank you very much for helping him. We’re still a couple of hours away. What’s your name?”

But Rachael had hung up. Jack was barely conscious. SIX

Parlow Clinic Rosy Bill Avenue

Monday morning

Dr. Post straightened as Nurse Harmon ushered a man and a woman into the small examining room. Sherlock stood in the doorway, staring at Jack, who was stretched out on his back with a sheet pulled to his waist, his shirt hanging open. A young woman was leaning over him, her long hair hiding her profile, carefully soaping the black off his face. There was a braid hanging down from her side part.

“Jack?” Sherlock took a quick step forward.

“Is that you, Sherlock? You look hot in that black leather jacket. Excuse me, but I’m not really with it,” and his eyes closed.

Dr. Post said, “Don’t worry, he’s asleep again, mostly from the medication. Let’s let him rest, all right?”

Sherlock drew a deep breath, smiled at the doctor. “I’m Agent Sherlock, this is Agent Savich, FBI. And this is Agent Jackson Crowne.”

“I know. He was awake enough to tell me when I found them on my doorstep.”

The woman standing over Jack straightened. “I’m Rachael,” she said. “I’ve been helping Jack.” She didn’t say another word. When Jack had identified himself to Dr. Post, she knew she was cursed. This was all she needed. And now there were three feds, all in the same small room with her.

Sherlock asked Dr. Post, “Tell us exactly what’s wrong with him.”

Dr. Post said, “He’s got a concussion and he isn’t going to feel too happy about it for a while. We don’t have an MRI in town, but the CAT scan didn’t show any abnormalities.

“He had a nice gash on his leg, but he was lucky, didn’t hit anything major, just needed some of my pretty stitches. I’ve put him on antibiotics and some pain meds. I’d like to let him rest for a while, but he should be all right. I’d like to keep him overnight, to make sure nothing else develops.

“I’ve invested lots of time in him and I don’t want him to leave the clinic and collapse on his face, undo any of my excellent work.”

Dr. Post looked curiously at the two FBI agents, who looked so relieved they were ready to high-five him.

“I guess you guys work together? Maybe you’re here on a case?”

Savich said, “Yes.”

Dr. Post pointed at Rachael. “She told me she isn’t his wife.”

Sherlock said, “No, she isn’t, but he’s going to think I’m his mother when he wakes up, because I’m going to chew his butt for scaringussobadly.”

Dr. Post laughed. “Okay, are you going to tell me what’s happening? The reason I’m asking is right after these two staggered into my clinic, I heard an ambulance heading through town, sirens blasting. Is someone else hurt?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Thank you for taking care of him.”

“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Post.

Savich looked at Rachael. “So you’re Jack’s savior.”

Rachael still couldn’t believe it. FBI agents, all three of them. When she and Jack had stumbled up the steps to the clinic, Dr. Post was unlocking the front door, balancing a cup of coffee in his free hand. Jack had pulled out his ID and flashed it to the startled doctor.

And she thought again, why couldn’t Jack have been a nice rent-a-pilot? No, he was an FBI agent, a fed whose bosses could be all chummy with Quincy and Laurel, who might be bought or influenced, defer to them because of their power—no, she wasn’t going there. They believe I’m dead. They’ve got to keep believing that.

As long as these three federal agents didn’t find out her full name, she was safe, she’d be okay. She’d still be dead.

She knew every bureaucracy leaked like a sieve, the FBI included. No, she’d be very careful, she’d lie well, a novel experience for her. She smiled. “I’m Rachael.” She shook their hands.

Savich said, “I understand you watched Agent Crowne’s plane come down and you helped both Jack and Dr. MacLean.” He stepped forward, stuck out his hand. “We’d like to thank you for seeing to them, Ms... .”

I’m the most fluent liar in the world, I’m the coolest, the smoothest —”Rachael Abercrombie.”

A lie, Savich thought, and wasn’t that strange? He said, smiling at her, “Yes, thank you, Ms. Abercrombie. The medevac took Dr. MacLean to Franklin County Hospital about twenty minutes ago. We don’t know his condition yet. I called your sheriff.”

“Oh no, he’s not my sheriff, Agent Savich. I’ve never been to Parlow before. I’m only passing through.”

Savich nodded, but his head cocked to the side, and he studied her face closely. Looking at that small clever braid, he decided Sherlock would look very sexy with one. “Well then, we’re all strangers here. Hopefully the sheriff will come soon.”

Dr. Post saw the big tough-looking man look down at—of all things—a Mickey Mouse watch, and frown.

‘We owe you big-time, Ms. Abercrombie,” said Sherlock.

“Oh no, please,” said Rachael, “Jack saved both of them. He pulled Dr. MacLean out of the plane before it exploded. I didn’t do all that much—call me the mule.”

Dr. Post said, “Deliah—that’s Nurse Harmon—told me Dougie—that’s Sheriff Hollyfield—had a septic tank problem this morning and that’s why he’s running a bit late. But he’ll get here, he always does.” He looked at them all closely. “I’ve never met any FBI agents before.”

Sherlock said, “He eats Cheerios for breakfast with our son, Sean,” and smiled. “I eat a slice of wheat toast with crunchy peanut butter.”

Dr. Post laughed. “Just plain folk? Maybe, but not to me. The two of you, you’re both FBI agents and you’re married, and you work together?”

“That’s right,” Savich said.

Dr. Post picked up Jack’s gun, which was sitting on top of the counter, next to his dirty, ripped slacks. “My dad owned a Kimber Gold Match 11. It’s a fine gun.”

“Agent Crowne believes it’s efficient,” Savich said easily, and held out his hand. Dr. Post gave him the Kimber, butt first.

“A ten-round magazine?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “And one in the pipe for eleven rounds at your fingertips.”

Rachael tuned them out. She looked hungrily at the gun now in Agent Savich’s hand. She’d wanted to steal it the moment she’d seen Dr. Post unclip it from Jack’s belt, but now it was too late. She couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t noticed it earlier, felt it, for heaven’s sake, when she was walking beside him, supporting his weight. It had been a rather hectic morning. She didn’t need a gun. All she needed to do was to keep her head. These agents had no idea who she was, where she lived, what she was doing when she’d come across Jack, and she had no intention of telling them anything. She had to remain anonymous, she had to remain dead. At least the two agents were focused on Jack.

But she didn’t like the way Agent Savich had looked at her, like he knew she was lying but wasn’t going to call her on it, and why should he? She wasn’t his concern, not any of their concern. As soon as she got her fuel pump replaced, she’d be out of Parlow and hiding in Slipper Hollow, deep in the forests lacing the rolling Kentucky hills that stretched out like an accordion.

Time to take charge, time to get moving. She smiled at the two agents and said brightly, “Well, since you’re here, I’ll be off. I have to get my car fixed. Then I’ve got places to go, deadlines to meet. Like I said, I don’t live here—Parlow, is it?—my car had just broken down when I saw Jack land the plane in Cudlow Valley. It’s not been particularly fun, but at least it turned out okay.”

Let’s hear it for a gigantic dose of overkill —keep your mouth shut.

Sherlock cocked her head, but didn’t say anything.

Nurse Harmon stuck her head in the door. “Dr. Post, we’ve got patients piling up out here, and Dr. Reimer called. Her little boy is throwing up and she doesn’t know when she’s going to make it in. Jimmy Bunt hurt his leg falling off his daddy’s tractor, looks broken. He’s making a racket, disturbing Mrs. Mason, who’s telling everyone she’s about to go into labor, although she shouldn’t, not for another three weeks.”

Dr. Post was out the door, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be retiring in twenty years.”

Sherlock saw Rachael take one more long look at Jack, frown at a clump of bloody hair. She watched her grab the washcloth and begin carefully wiping away the blood. Well, she had saved him, it made sense she’d care enough to clean him up.

Rachael was a name Sherlock had always liked, but Abercrombie? As in Fitch’s partner? Hmmm. She saw a faint line of freckles marching across Rachael’s nose. That beautiful hair of hers, all long and smooth with streaky highlights, very nicely done, and that clever braid on the side. She’d have to ask Dillon what he thought of the braid. As for Rachael’s eyes, they were dark blue and—what? Afraid. Yes, she was afraid, and her chewed nails took away any doubt. But afraid of what? Of them because they were cops? Was she running from an abusive husband? Sherlock knew their plates were full, but still, this woman had saved Jack. Whatever was wrong, she was ready and willing to help her.

She said to Rachael, “Do you know Jack’s been injured only once before this? He was stabbed in the side by a crazed heroin addict. Amazing, really, since he spent four years in the FBI’s Elite Crime Unit. He’s already faced more horrific situations than most agents do in a lifetime. He burned out, no wonder, but instead of leaving the FBI to go practice law, Dillon talked him into transferring to his unit, the CAU—the Criminal Apprehension Unit.”

“Ah, well, that’s very interesting,” Rachael said, and tossed the washcloth back into the sink, her eyes now on the door. She gave them a big smile. “It was a pleasure to meet both of you. I’m off now, good-bye,” and she started walking around them.

Sherlock lightly laid her hand on Rachael’s arm. “Jack’s a very good agent and a very good man.” Rachael was wearing a soft beige cashmere V-necked sweater with a white oxford blouse beneath it, very expensive, Sherlock thought. The boots she was wearing looked so soft you could butter toast with them. But she looked strung out. Sherlock smiled.

Rachael looked down at Sherlock’s hand, her long fingers, buffed nails, the wedding band. “Yes, I can imagine Jack is very good at what he does.”

“Before you handle car repairs, we’d really appreciate it if you would tell us exactly what happened the moment you saw the plane, all right?”

Rachael was so close to the door she could touch the knob. She realized she was cold and wondered if she’d ever see her leather jacket again since she’d covered Dr. MacLean with it.

Savich said pleasantly, “We would really appreciate it, Rachael. Since Jack will be asleep for a while, why don’t I hang around and speak to the sheriff when he gets here? I also need to check that Dr. MacLean is all right. Then I’ll arrange to have your car towed to a mechanic here in Parlow while you and Sherlock have some coffee and something to eat. You must be hungry.”

“Would you look at that,” Sherlock said, eyeing her own watch. “It’s getting late. Come along, Rachael. I, for one, am starving. Dillon, we’ll see you at that cafe across the street when you’ve got everything wrapped up.” Sherlock turned to Rachael, smiling all the while. “I’m sorry, but I missed your last name.”

“Abercrombie,” Rachael said, voice stony.

“A nice name, very English, very retail,” said Sherlock, thinking, You are a really rotten liar. “Let’s go have some scrambled eggs.”

She was trapped, very neatly. She looked back at Agent Crowne’s still face. With all the black smoke and blood cleaned off, she saw a good-looking face with an olive complexion, all strong lines and good bones, stubborn bones, she’d bet, and an indentation in his chin. He’d been in the FBI Elite Crime Unit? She didn’t know exactly what they did, hut it sounded scary. He’d nearly been killed by a drug addict? Was this Dr. MacLean a criminal he was flying back to Washington? Or a friend who was in trouble? She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to get involved She wanted the time and privacy to enjoy her death. The last thing she needed was more complications.

Agent Sherlock was still smiling at her. Well, no choice. She said to Agent Savich, “Would you mind bringing my duffel with you to the cafe?”

“My pleasure,” Savich said.

“Thank you, Agent Savich,” Rachael said, as she fell into step beside Sherlock and left Dr. Post’s clinic, the half-dozen people in the waiting room staring at them, some with curiosity, some with hostility since they’d had to wait so long.

Savich stayed with Jack awhile longer, watching him breathe, checking his pulse to reassure himself. He’d stepped back toward the waiting room door when a slender straight-backed man in his mid-forties came through, wearing bib overalls, a long-sleeved bright red flannel shirt, a holstered .38 strapped to the wide belt around his waist. Savich didn’t sigh at this example of local law enforcement, but he wanted to. He knew this was very likely going to be a chore. SEVEN

I’m Sheriff Hollyfield,” the man said, and stuck out a slender hand hardened with calluses. Savich shook it, introduced himself, showed him his creds.

“A pleasure, Agent Savich. Sorry I’m late. That dratted septic tank of Mrs. Judd’s busted again. The first time, that damned dog of hers fell in and we had to pull him out. Come along outside, we can talk more privately.”

“Maybe you could send a tow truck out to the crash site to fetch Rachael’s car?”

“I’ve got a tow on my truck. Let’s go. We can talk on the way.”

Savich nodded and followed the bib overalls out the door.

The day was warming up nicely, the sun bright in the morning sky. “I appreciate your coming over, Sheriff,” Savich said as he climbed into the passenger side of a big white Chevy Silverado.

A pale eyebrow shot up nearly to his hairline. “This is the last place I’d expect the FBI to come visit. I heard from Benny—one of the paramedics who met the medevac helicopter at the crash site— he told me the guy was in pretty bad shape. What’s goingon, Agent Savich?”

“I’ll be happy to tell you when my agent who was flying the man to Washington wakes up. He’s suffering a concussion and lacerations on his leg.”

“What happened?”

“Agent Crowne crash-landed, managed to walk away, more or less. That’s all I know at present, Sheriff, I’m sorry. We haven’t gotten the status on the other man yet.”

“You wouldn’t be holding back on a local cop, now would you?”

“I might, but the fact is, I don’t know how or why the plane came down.”

“Very well. I’ll tell you, Agent Crowne must have had an angel sitting on his shoulder since Cudlow Valley’s the only flat stretch of land for miles around. Even our two-lane road is all twists, impossible to land on it. If he’d crashed in the mountains, it would have been the end of him and his friend.

“Incidentally, I’m a detective from Boston PD, so you can hang up thinking I’m a backwoods hick who doesn’t know his butt from his pinkie finger.”

Savich had planned to politely shuffle aside this sheriff named Dougie who tended septic tanks wearing his .38 over bib overalls. Time to reevaluate. He said, “I’ll bet worrying about septic tanks wasn’t in your job description in the BPD. How long have you been down here in Kentucky?”

“About ten years, sheriff of Parlow for nine. My wife was born here, missed it, so we moved here. You’re real smooth, Agent Savich. You don’t want to tell me a blessed thing, I get that. You thought you’d get away with a nice courtesy call, blow me off, and go about your fed business. But I am the sheriff, I’m not stupid, and, praise be, I’m not the stereotypical tobacco-spitting jughead who runs a still in his backyard.” Then ho looked down at himself and laughed. “Regardless of the picture I’m currently presenting, you might discover I’ve got a good brain, and it’s at your service since we had a plane come down in suspicious circumstances in my jurisdiction. You don’t want to come clean with me—well then, maybe I’ll just have to do some checking on this myself. Who’s the guy in Franklin County Hospital?”

Savich saw clearly now that this man not only had a good brain, he also wouldn’t stop, he’d do exactly what he said, he’d check into this himself. Well, all right, he also knew the terrain, both people and geography. Savich gave Dougie Hollyfield a long look. He said, “I like the .38 over the overalls, nice touch.”

Dougie Hollyfield grinned. “My wife was laughing too hard to tell me what she thought. Now, you going to level with me? Let me do my pitiful best to help you?”

“Yes,” Savich said, “I think I am. The man in Franklin County Hospital is Dr. Timothy MacLean, originally from Lexington, Kentucky. His family owns the MacLean racing stables; perhaps you’ve heard of them.”

Sheriff Hollyfield nodded.

“His family knows Agent Crowne and his family, and so they asked for his help, told him Dr. MacLean believed someone was trying to murder him in Washington, where he’s a psychiatrist to some big-name patients. MacLean’s wife got him to come back to Lexington, to his family. There was another attempt on his life, so Agent Crowne flew to Lexington to fetch him back to Washington for protection, and to get to the bottom of this.”

A pale brow shot up, fingers hooked the wide belt over the bib overalls. “You gave me a lot more than I thought you would. Let me remark that the FBI doesn’t do things like fly planes to fetch a noncriminal citizen back to Washington, Agent Savich.”

Savich said, “Since Agent Crowne knows the family, it was personal.”

Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Why don’t you add that the main reason the feds are in this is because some very big, high-profile names are involved? What did this Dr. MacLean do to really piss off one of his high-roller patients?”

“Now that I can’t tell you.”

“All right, I’ll buy that for the moment. So we keep things even here, Agent Savich, let me tell you Dot—she’s Parlow’s other paramedic—told me about the downed search-and-rescue plane. She figured the pilot was from a law enforcement agency since they’re the ones who usually use those planes. She said the pilot was good, bringing the plane down in the valley. She should know—Dot’s a pilot herself, as well as a paramedic. She wondered why Agent Crowne was flying it since she hadn’t heard about any accidents.”

“I believe it was the only plane available.”

“So after they medevaced Dr. MacLean out, Dot examined the plane.”

Savich waited. He knew there wasn’t much left after it had exploded on the ground. He also knew he wasn’t going to like what the sheriff was about to tell him.

“Dot didn’t have the time or the expertise to do a thorough check, but from the look of what was left of the fuselage, it looked to her like the luggage compartment was blown outward by some sort of explosion, maybe a bomb. Seems like it didn’t work too well, since the plane wasn’t blown out of the sky. So, I’d appreciate it, Agent Savich, if you don’t try to pawn off the crash on some sort of a malfunction.” Sheriff Hollyfield was rocking back and forth on his toes. He was wearing galoshes, Savich saw, though very clean, thankfully, as if they’d been hosed down.

“Yes,” Savich said, “that’s what Agent Crowne thinks. We’ve got an expert coming to verify. If you wouldn’t mind keeping a deputy at the crash site to protect it until our people arrive.”

Sheriff Hollyfield nodded. “All right, then. You’ll keep me in the loop, Agent Savich?”

Savich nodded. You never knew when you were going to find good law enforcement, he thought as he shook the sheriff’s hand, thankfully as clean as his galoshes.

Savich looked over the scattered wreckage while Sheriff Holly-field hooked up the tow to Rachael’s Charger. “Hard to imagine surviving that,” Sheriff Hollyfield said, straightening to look out over Cudlow Valley, his hand over his eyes to shade against the strong morning sun.

“Believe me, we are very grateful.”

Before the sheriff dropped him and Rachael’s duffel off at Monk’s Cafe, Savich said, “Could I come to your office a bit later, Sheriff, and use your landline to call the Franklin County Hospital? See how Dr. MacLean is doing?”

Sheriff Hollyfield nodded.

First Savich wanted to speak to Sherlock, see what she was doing with Rachael Abercrombie. He tried his cell again, but couldn’t get a signal. Mix mountains with the boondocks, and technology didn’t mean squat.

Monk’s Cafe was on Old Squaw Lane, a small skinny white building with an apartment on the second floor, sandwiched between May’s Cleaners and Clyde’s 24/7. It was kitty-corner from the Parlow Clinic on Rosy Bill Avenue.

Savich set Rachael’s duffel next to her on the seat.

“Thank yon, Agent Savich. Where did you have my car towed?”

“We’ll talk about that in a moment.” Savich picked up a menu. “What’s good?”

A waitress with impossibly ink-black hair sprayed up in a cone walked briskly to their table, her bright yellow high-top sneakers thumping on the worn linoleum, wearing a huge apron over jeans and a man’s white dress shirt.

She stopped, looked him over, gave him a big smile showing teeth as white as her dress shirt. “Well now, Deliah—she’s my sister, the nurse at the clinic—she called me about the federal agents being here, one of them bloody and nearly dead in an examining room. But that isn’t you, thank the good Lord.” She paused a moment, tapped her pencil on her chin, and eyed him. “Aren’t you ever a hottie, that’s what Deliah said. She didn’t know about the other one ‘cause he was in such bad shape. You’re all dangerous-looking, not a single soft edge on you. I’ll bet you’re a real bad boy. Of course, that’s what makes the women perk up when you’re around—even my sister, who never even noticed her own husband before he passed. Just look at you—two pretty girls here, ready and waiting.”

Sherlock snorted. Suzette, the waitress, ignored her.

Suzette was old enough to be his mother, Savich thought, and gave her a big smile. “Nah, I’m only dangerous when I don’t get my Cheerios for breakfast. May I please have some very hot tea ... Suzette?”

“You can call me Suz,” she said, licking the tip of her pencil before writing down the order. “We only got tea bags, that all right?”

Savich nodded. He could already see the tea bag floating in the lukewarm water.

“I know it’s still early, but Tony just took his meatloaf out of the oven. Or, if you’re into healthy eats, I’ve got some fish sticks, nice and deep-fried.”

Savich ended up with scrambled eggs and wheat toast with some gooseberry jam Suz promised was the greatest. She nodded at Sherlock and Rachael. “Your two pretty ladies sure thought so.”

He looked up to see Rachael grinning at him. “Something tells me you don’t eat many deep-fried fish sticks, Agent Savich.”

“No, but our kid would eat them every day if we let him, between tacos and hot dogs.”

Rachael’s eyes flicked over them. “What’s your kid’s name again?”

“Sean’s our boy, big into computer games and football, wants to help the Redskins build a dynasty, though he doesn’t really know what that means.”

“Married FBI agents. I never imagined such a thing, and Sherlock tells me you work together.”

Savich nodded.

Sherlock turned to him. “When you came in, Dillon, Rachael was refusing to tell me what’s going on with her. You’d think what with sharing a lovely brunch that I offered to pay for, she’d have a bit more trust in me, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s tough to trust someone, Sherlock,” he said slowly, “when you’re scared to your toes. I’ll tell you one thing, though, we can’t let her leave because she’s clearly a material witness.”

Sherlock looked straight at Rachael. “Who’s to say she wasn’t more directly involved in bringing down Jack’s plane? You know, the spotter on the ground?”

Rachael banged her fist on the table, making her spoon jump. How could they know so quickly that she was in trouble? It wasn’t fair. She was an idiot, dead for only two and a half days. If she wasn’t more careful, she wouldn’t make being dead to the end of the week. “What did you say? A material witness? I know more about the plane crash? Listen, you can’t hold me, I was only an innocent bystander, you can’t—”

Sherlock leaned forward to touch her ring finger. “Maybe you’re running away from your husband?”

Husband? She choked down a hysterical laugh and felt panic shoot through her. She grabbed her purse and duffel bag, slithered out of the booth, and was out of the cafe in under five seconds.

Suz, carrying Savich’s plate, the scrambled eggs steaming, stopped to stare after Rachael. “Isn’t this par for the course—a sexy guy with two girls—I’ll just bet the little redhead here threatened to whomp the blonde with that cute braid, right?”

“You’re very observant, Suz,” Savich said.

Sherlock rolled her eyes, tossed her napkin down over the one cold bacon strip left on her plate, and headed after Rachael.

“At least if there’s a catfight, it’ll be in the street and not in here. Tony would hate that, remind him too much of his mother-in-law.” EIGHT

Sherlock caught up with Rachael at Bobolink’s Bakery on the corner of Old Squaw Lane, leaning against the display window, her old duffel beside her, staring down at her scuffed boots. Sherlock lightly touched her shoulder. Rachael didn’t move. “You know,” Sherlock said, “when things get tough, it doesn’t mean you have to deal with everything alone. I’m a fed. I do tough really well. Dillon and Jack do tough well, too. That means it’s your lucky day since I figure we all owe you.”

Rachael said, “I don’t need tough, I don’t need help. All I need is to have my car fixed so I can leave. I’ve got to go ... There are people expecting me. I want Agent Savich to tell me where he had my car towed.”

Sherlock smiled. “Well then, let’s go back to the cafe and ask him.”

“I couldn’t get away from you, could I? Maybe coldcock you?”

“Probably not. Dillon pulls his moves on females. I don’t.”

“Since I don’t have any transportation, I don’t have much choice but to go back with you.” She could walk to Slipper Hollow it she had to, but it’d be stupid not to have a means of escape — just in case. She prayed Agent Savich hadn’t cleaned off the license plate. He could run the plate and find out exactly who she was, probably in under a minute. She was worrying herself nuts over this when Sherlock asked, “Where were you headed, Rachael, when your car hroke down?”

“Cleveland,” Rachael said brightly. “All the way to Cleveland.”

Sherlock thought, Another big whopping lie.

Monk’s Cafe was filling up with the early lunch crowd. Conversation stopped dead when they walked in. Sherlock had no doubt the gossip winds had blown directly into the cafe when the federal agents had arrived.

When they sat down opposite him, Savich said, “I spoke to

Dr. Hallick at Franklin County Hospital. He said Dr. MacLean’s still not conscious. They have more tests to run before they can give a halfway decent prognosis. I asked Sheriff Hollyfield to send a couple of deputies to guard Dr. MacLean until federal agents arrive.”

Rachael raised her head at that. She wanted to pin him immediately, ask him where her damned car was, but what came out of her mouth was, “Jack—Agent Crowne—said something about a bomb, then he clammed up.”

“Could be. An expert will be arriving sometime today to see what brought down the plane. If it was a bomb, he’ll be able to tell us why the Cessna didn’t explode into a fireball when it detonated, not that it should have mattered, given the terrain.”

“Why would someone want to kill this Dr. MacLean?”

Why not? Sherlock thought. It wasn’t a state secret. After all, trust was a two-way street. “Well, let me just say that Dr. Timothy MacLean, psychiatrist, has lots of very high-profile people scared of what he might say about them.”

“You mean, he was breaking patient confidentiality? A shrink?”

“So it seems,” said Savich.

Rachael sat forward. “Agent Savich, truly, it’s been a pleasure to meet you and Agent Sherlock, but I must leave. Please tell me where you had my car towed.”

“I’ll take you over to the garage when we’re done here. But the thing is, Rachael, the way I’m figuring it is that we need you. You’re the only witness to Jack’s forced landing. You saw everything. You’ll remember more details, trust me. Are you willing to stay with us for a while?”

Rachael looked from her duffel bag to the two agents. For the time being, until her bloody car was repaired, she was stuck in Parlow, and all she could do was pray that no one recognized her. Secrets never stayed secrets, even in the boondocks. At least, she thought, she would be safe with a pack of FBI agents. “I’d planned on getting to where I was going by now. I don’t have much time left, or money.”

“Where do you need to go?”

“Like I told Agent Sherlock, I was driving to Cleveland, a job interview, family, you know the deal.”

Savich thought, Yeah right, and said easily, “A day or two then, if that’s all right with you. Now, Suz tells me there’s a fine B&B over on Canvasback Lane. The FBI will pick up the tab.”

As Suzette toted up their bill, Sherlock asked, “What’s with all the strange street names in Parlow?”

Rachael opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. This was, after all, her first time in Parlow.

Suzette said, “Horace Bench, the rich guy who founded the town back in the thirties, he bred and raised ducks—hookbills, rouens, runners, calls—the calls are real small, I’m told, like toy ducks. He figured not many folks would recognize those names, so he threw in some common ones, as well, like canvasback, rosy hill, old squaw. He himself lived on Runners Road, and his daughter, whom he didn’t like so it’s said, lived on Old Hooknose Lane.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow went up. “Hooknose? I thought the duck was called a Hookbill.”

“Yep, that’s right,” said Suz, and grinned.

“Where’d the name Parlow come from?” Sherlock asked.

“Parlow was an Indian chief back in the eighteenth century who sought out any settlers he could find to celebrate Thanksgiving with him and his people every year. He always brought trout for the feast. Isn’t that a kick?”

“And where is the sheriff’s office?” Savich asked.

“Oh, that’s on the main drag, First Street, one block over. Sheriff Hollyfield, now he’s so honest you could put your money under his mattress. Smart, too.”

“Duck names,” Sherlock said as they walked out of Monk’s Cafe, Savich carrying Rachael’s duffel bag. “It always amazes me what strikes people’s fancy.”

The three of them were checked in by the manager, Mrs. Flint, thankfully not a longtime native who could recognize Rachael. She told them Greeb’s Pond was the best of Parlow’s upscale lodgings. It was also the name of the current owner’s grandfather’s favorite duck.

They found their rooms decorated with a duck motif, from the wallpaper, to the hooked rugs on the floor, to the bedspread, to three small stuffed duck heads on the walls. “The only one I recognize is the mallard,” Sherlock said, shaking her head. “Imagine stuffing a duck’s head. And look at that little tiny one—you think that’s a toy duck, what’s the name—a call? And what do you bet the alarm clock will start quacking to wake us up?”

Since Sherlock had no intention of letting Rachael out of her sight, the two of them went back to the Parlow Clinic, waded through half a dozen patients to the desk, where Sherlock flashed her FBI shield at a very young receptionist who had short spiky red hair tipped with black and was vigorously chewing gum. She waved them back to the small room where they’d left Jack sleeping. Sherlock stopped by the door and tried her cell again. No luck. When she walked into the room, Rachael was saying, “You look better, Agent Crowne, and that’s a relief. We thought you’d still be out of it.”

Jack smiled. The debilitating headache was only a dull throb now, what with Dr. Post’s magic pain meds. “I slept a good hour, and I was still out when this gum-chewing teenager came in to draw some blood—just like a hospital. I was thinking, Rachael,” he continued, “that you need to stick around awhile, at least until after we get things squared away. What do you think?” Rachael maintained a stony silence.

“Well now, moving right along. Sherlock, where’s Savich?”

“Here he is,” she said, and smiled as Dillon came into the examination room.

Savich said as he shook Jack’s hand, “Well, lad, you’re not looking so green around the gills anymore. How’s the leg and head?”

“I’ll live.”

“And that’s the best news.”

“Please, Agent Savich, where is my car?”

Savich said, “They towed your car to the best and most honest mechanic in Parlow—you can’t trust the others worth spit, so Mort, Sheriff Hollyfield’s dispatcher, told me. Anyway, that excellent mechanic can’t get to your car for a couple of days. He’s really backed up.”

“Yeah, right,” Rachael said. “I’ll bet you terrified him down to his socks, threatened him if he didn’t say that.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Sherlock said, and gave Rachael a sunny smile. “He can do anything.”

“She likes to suck up to the boss sometimes,” Savich said. “As I said, Parlow’s got other mechanics, most attached to gas stations, but the sheriff strongly recommended against them. So did the dispatcher. These guys must know, Rachael.”

“There’s got to be another honest mechanic.”

“Well, all right, there is one, but he’s down with a bad back.” She watched Agent Savich shrug, the jerk. He continued without pause to Jack. “Dr. MacLean’s still out of it, so they don’t know yet what’s going on with him. They’re calling his condition guarded.

“Tommy Jerkins should be here anytime to check out the plane. Okay, Sherlock, if you come with me, I’ve got more calls to make from Sheriff Hollyfield’s office. I want to make sure, too, that his deputies have arrived at the hospital to do guard duty. You really are better, aren’t you?” he asked Jack.

Jack said, “Well, I don’t want to moan anymore, so that’s something.”

“Good. All right then, you can question Rachael, sift through more of her memories of the crash. Remember, Rachael, anything you might remember could be of great help. We’ll see you guys a bit later.”

What Savich had really meant was keep Rachael close, Jack thought. Once alone, he said, “You ready to tell me your last name?” NINE

It’s Abercrombie.” Why had that ridiculous name popped into her head? “How’s your leg?”

“It will heal, thank you for asking. I can’t go to the gym for a week, then I’ve got to go easy for a while.” Jack buttoned his shirt, then threw back the single sheet before realizing he was wearing only his boxer shorts. He quickly pulled the sheet back to his waist. “Since my head isn’t going to explode, I’m ready to get up now. Dr. Post said it was okay as long as I don’t attempt a marathon,” and he smiled. “Would you hand me my pants, Rachael? They’re on the hook on the back of the door.”

She handed him his dirty, ripped pants and left the room, saying over her shoulder, “You’re going to look like the leftovers from a drug war.”

“Nice image.”

They left the Parlow Clinic with the nurse muttering under her breath about macho men with muscles in their heads, Jack clutching a prescription for pain pills in his hand.

She eyed the prescription and said, “First let’s go to Peabody’s Pharmacy.”

“Nah, I don’t really need any more pain meds right now.”

“You will soon enough.”

“No, I think—”

“Shut up, Jack.” And so Jack shut up, cupped her elbow, as if afraid she’d bolt, knowing he couldn’t catch her.

“I think Agent Savich got you a room at the B&B where we’re all staying. If you’re wondering, everything is ducks around here. I was thinking Old Squaw Lane over there was a tacky insult, but no, it’s a duck.”

“Well, of course it is,” Jack said, aiming her toward Peabody’s Pharmacy. Once he had a bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, and one in his mouth, they walked to the sheriff’s office at the top of First Street, next to the firehouse. “I wonder if the firefighters have lots of business—look at all these old wooden buildings.”

“Hey are you the pilot of what’s left of the Cessna rescue plane?”

Jack smiled at the tall, fit fiftyish woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a drill sergeant’s voice. She stood right in front of them on the sidewalk by the big glass window of the sheriff’s office. “Yes,” he said, and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m Dot—Dorothy Malone—silly name my parents fastened on me, but my daddy loved her, the actress, you know. I spent a little time looking over your plane. I’m thinking bomb, but the sucker didn’t do the trick, thank God.”

“Actually,” Rachael said, “thank God for Cudlow Valley.”

Dot nodded. “That’s for sure, but still, that must have been some flying you did.”

“Thank you.”

“Sheriff Hollyfield’s assigned a deputy to guard the wreckage.”

“Good thinking,” Jack said, shook her hand, andopened the door to the sheriff’s office. Jack knew Dot Malone was right. If the bomb had worked as expected, both he and Timothy would be memories. Fortunately, he’d had time to send the mayday and to spot Cudlow Valley stretching narrow and straight between that impossible mess

of mountains.

There was no one at the front desk, so he and Rachael walked through a large room that held ten or so cubicles, three occupied by uniformed deputies who watched their every move. Jack nodded to each of the men, no women, and continued to follow the sound of Savich’s voice to Sheriff Hollyfield’s sparse office. Jack saw Savich on the phone through the open door. Rachael shoved Jack into a chair, eyed him. “Here I thought you were well enough to make this little trek, but you’re not. You’re hurting again. Stay put and don’t you move. Give the pain med a chance to kick in.”

“Nah, I’m—”

“Be quiet. What you really need to do is crawl into bed for a while and sleep. Lean your head back, close your eyes, and rest your mouth.”

No sooner had Savich hung up than Tommy Jerkins poked his head in.

Things moved quickly. Savich and Sherlock and Sheriff Hollyfield went with Tommy out to the crash site. Even better, ten minutes later, after the blessed Vicodin was happily swimming in his bloodstream and Jack could see straight, he and Rachael walked over to Greeb’s Pond, the finest lodging in Parlow.

Rachael held him up while Mrs. Flint checked him into the last available room.

Mrs. Flint said, “You’re the federal agent whose plane was shot down and landed on the highway, right?”

“Close enough,” Jack said.

Rachael helped him up the stairs to the second door on the right. It was a lovely room, with high ceilings and windows overlooking Canvasback Lane.

It could have been a closet for all he cared. “More ducks,” Jack said as he eyed the duck border wallpaper and eased down onto the bed. “I feel fine now, Rachael. We can go out to the plane. Oh, man, this bed feels really nice and—”

Rachael pushed him onto his back. In under three seconds, he was out.

She poured a glass of water and left it and the bottle of pills on the nightstand next to his bed. She covered him with a duck-themed afghan and went back to her room.

When she left ten minutes later, she looked as good as she could with what she had in her duffel bag.

Mrs. Flint called to her before she could get through the front door. “Miss, are you a federal agent, too? I didn’t get your last name.”

“Abercrombie, Mrs. Flint. No, I’m not an agent. I’m happy to report that Agent Crowne is asleep. Ah, do you know where I can find Tip Top Overhaul?”

She walked straight to the car repair two blocks over on Long Neck Lane, set off by itself, the big lot in the back closed in by a high chain-link fence. Only one person was around, a youngish guy wearing a tatty T-shirt, jeans, and black sneakers, and he was sitting on a folding chair, back chair legs against the wall in the single garage bay, chewing gum and flipping through a tattered old Playboy.

Playboy. Now that was good, that was really quite hopeful, Rachael thought as she stepped over an ancient radiator and into the dim space. When he looked up, she nearly turned and ran. She recognized him straight off—Roy Bob Lancer. He’d been a senior when she was twelve, captain of the football team. He blinked up at her, and blessed be, there wasn’t a hint of recognition in his eyes. It was obvious he didn’t remember the skinny twelve-year-old with braces.

Rachael gave him a smile designed to curl his toes and churn up lust in his belly, and prayed to the tight sweater gods. “I wonder if you towed my car in, Mr....”

He lunged to his feet. “Lancer, ma’am, it’s Roy Bob Lancer. Ah, you’re the Charger?”

“Yes, but I don’t see it.” She gave him another blinding smile.

“It’s out back, ma’am, all safe and sound.”

“Do call me Rachael. And I’ll call you Roy Bob.” Another toothy smile. “If I knew anything about fuel pumps, and indeed I don’t, I’m going to need you to fix it or replace it for me,” and she kept that delicious smile on her face, her shoulders back, breasts forward. “You’re the expert, everyone says so. And you’re honest, that’s what the sheriff says, and the dispatcher. So, what do you think?”

“Well, ma’am, I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. I’m all backed up, you know?” Roy Bob quickly dropped the Playboy and toed it beneath an open toolbox. He looked back at the most beautiful girl he’d seen up close since Ellie had waltzed out on him nearly four months ago, off to the big city of Waynesboro where her cousins lived, she’d said, with a little wave. Rachael was giving him a helpless look that made him want to lay the world at her feet, but what could he do? Agent Savich was an FBI special agent, and it was Roy Bob’s duty not—

“You know what, Roy Bob? In addition to paying for your services, I’d sure like to add my own personal thank you with a cup of coffee over at Monk’s Cafe, or maybe even a drink somewhere—you know, a cozy little out-of-the-way place?”

He glowed, but then, he was shaking his head. “Oh yeah, well, no, shit—forgive my French— I’d sure like that, ma’am, you know, a beer, but I’m so dratted busy right now.” He waved his hand around.

Yeah, right. Savich had indeed gotten to him. It was time to find another mechanic. No, she would give it one more try.

“Listen, Roy Bob, I’ve got a super important deal I can’t miss up in Cleveland. I’ve got to leave as soon as possible. Maybe you and I could work something out, maybe—”

A loud bang sliced through the air near her shoulder, ricocheted off a tire rim, and thudded into an oil can, spewing 10/40 in a fountain. Another bang, this one sharp and loud, gouged into the wall a foot over their heads. TEN

“Hey—what was that?”

Rachael grabbed Roy Bob’s arm and pulled him down behind a stack of old tires. “It was a bullet. Stay down, someone’s shooting at us.”

“Nah, that can’t be, I mean, who—”

Another two shots slammed into the wall behind their heads.

“Holy shit—pardon my Irish—you’re right, but why? Who would do that?”

“I don’t know.” But of course she did. They’d discovered she wasn’t dead. But how? “Roy Bob, you got a phone in your office?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Don’t move.”

She managed to look around the side of the tires through the glass into his small office, saw the black phone on his banged-up desk, the door not more than six feet away. Still, she pulled out her cell first, dialed 911.

No signal.

“Listen, Rachael—”

A bullet sank into an old car seat hooked to the wall beside his head. He ducked back down fast. “Oh man, what’s this all about? You FBI, too, Rachael, and someone’s after you?”

“Roy Bob, I’ve got to get to your phone.”

“No, look, I’ll go.” He eased up enough to peer around the tires.

The next bullet struck a support column two feet from his head, spewing concrete shards and thick gritty dust. One spear of concrete sliced Roy Bob’s upper arm, and he yelped.

“Stay down, Roy Bob. I don’t suppose you have a gun?”

“Sure, my daddy’s old Remington. It’s propped up behind my desk against the wall, right under his favorite calendar. No, wait! I’ll get it, I’ll shoot this idiot’s head off—”

He paled, grabbed his arm, and fell onto his side, gasping.

“Tell me it’s loaded.”

“Yeah, yeah, two bullets.” No time, she thought, no time. Even if someone had heard the shots and called the sheriff—there just wasn’t time. They’d both be long dead. The only reason they were still alive was because the shooter simply hadn’t walked in and mowed them down. Why? Maybe he’d been warned she might have a gun with her. And she wondered again whether they’d checked to see the block of cement didn’t have her attached to it at the bottom of Black Rock Lake. No matter, someone had seen her, simple as that. But how had they found her, and so quickly? Get a grip, they knew she was here and they wanted her dead. She had to hurry. “You stay here, Roy Bob. Keep pressure on your arm, and keep down. Don’t give him a target.”

Both of them would be slaughtered if she didn’t do something fast. Before she could second-guess herself, Rachael crawled behind an ancient mop bucket, a stack of oil filters. Nearly there. She rolled through the open door into the office. A shot rang out, not a foot above her head, sending splinters flying out of the door frame. The shooter was firing from directly behind her, and that meant he was right in the middle of the bay opening. They were down to seconds. She felt rage shoulder aside fear. She rolled between the wall and Roy Bob’s desk, came up to her knees, grabbed the Remington, identical to her uncle Gillette’s that she’d learned on, and slammed down on her stomach onto the dirty linoleum as two more shots sprayed dust and clumps of Sheetrock over her head. Rachael jumped up, pumped it once, and fired toward the bay opening. She heard a man yell, curse.

Got him. She felt powerful, invincible in that moment. She shouted, “Drop that gun and step out where I can see you or I’ll shoot your head off!”

She heard heavy running footsteps. She scrambled to her feet, ran to the bay opening, saw him rounding a corner, and fired again. She missed, but it was close. The footsteps faded into the distance. Rachael ran after the man, saw him get into a black Ford pickup and burn rubber onto the street. She started to run after him, but realized there weren’t any more bullets in the Remington, and he might see her in the rearview and decide to stop and have another go at her. She lowered the rifle, a fierce smile on her face. She’d forgotten what it was like to feel strong and in control.

How had they found her so quickly?

“By gawd, ma’am, that was good, real good. You got the sumbitch—pardon my Italian—I saw a brief glimpse of him holding his sorry arm and running away as fast as he could.”

“Call me Rachael,” she said as she ran to Roy Bob’s phone and dialed 911. The dispatcher Mort asked her to state her emergency. She nearly laughed. She sucked it in and asked for Agent Savich. He wasn’t there ... wait a minute, he and the sheriff just walked in.

“Hello? Savich here.”

Rachael shouted into the phone, “A guy tried to kill us! Roy Bob’s place, hurry!”

When Sheriff Hollyfield, Savich, and Sherlock came running, every deputy in Parlow racing behind them, she yelled, “He’s in a black Ford pickup—that way! The first three letters on his license plate are F-T-E!” She wanted to go with them, but the last thing they needed was to haul along a civilian with an empty Remington. It was hard, but she stood still and watched them take off after him.

Sheriff Hollyfield yelled, “I saw that wuss car you’re driving. Take my Chevy, it’ll get you anywhere,” and he tossed the keys to Savich. He looked after them, and sighed. He turned to look at Roy Bob and Rachael. Roy Bob was holding his arm, his eyes nearly whirling in his head, not from pain but from excitement. And Rachael looked pretty pumped herself. Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Roy Bob, that was fine shooting. You said you shot him in the arm?”

“No,” said Roy Bob, “it wasn’t me.”

The sheriff’s left eyebrow arched as he looked at Rachael. “Sorry, that’s my bib overalls talking. All right, you shot him. Tell me exactly what happened.”

She laughed, couldn’t help herself. “That was funny.”

“Yeah, well.” The sheriff was embarrassed he’d been sexist, and it calmed her, even made her smile a bit. She said, “Roy Bob and I were discussing how speedily he could get my car fixed when a bullet whizzed by our heads. Roy Bob would have shot him, but he got hurt, as you can see. I crawled to his office, got the rifle, and shot the guy. Fact is, Sheriff, he could have run in and shot us both dead, but he didn’t. Maybe he was afraid Roy Bob had a gun handy and so he waited and shot from the bay door.”

“I didn’t realize,” Roy Bob said, still riding so high on adrenaline he couldn’t hold still, didn’t even pay any attention to the blood still dripping between his fingers and down his arm, “it was bullets. Then there was another shot and she pulled me down behind those Goodyears. The guy kept shooting, I got hit in the arm with a piece of concrete, and Rachael crawled into my office and got Daddy’s Remington. Boy she knows how to use a rifle, good as my grandpa, and she stood right up and fired, hit the bastard—pardon my Russian— her first shot. She fired again but he was moving fast so she missed.” He paused for a moment, grinned real big. “Would you marry me, Rachael? I don’t want Ellie, she can’t shoot worth spit.” He paused, looked down, and paled. “Oh, dude, I’ve got blood running down my arm.”

Rachael tore the sleeve from Roy Bob’s shirt and wrapped it around his arm. “It’s nearly stopped bleeding, you’ll be okay.” She thought of her Charger and knew it was all over, she’d have to leave it here.

“And you, Miss Abercrombie? How’re you doing?”

“I’m purely fine, just fine.” She felt flushed with victory, lit up like a neon sign. “I got him, Sheriff, I got him.”

“You shoot often with a rifle, Miss Abercrombie?”

“Not for a long time. It’s nice that you don’t seem to forget. It felt natural, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. So you were raised around guns?”

“Where I was raised, everyone knew how to shoot and shoot well.”

“I see. And where was that?”

Roy Bob burst out before she had to come up with a believable answer, “A Remington as old as my daddy, I haven’t seen anybody so smooth with that sucker since Grandpappy died back before the turn of the new century.” He beamed at Rachael, not a single bit of macho irritation showing in his proud face. He added, “And would you look at how pretty she is, Sheriff. Can you imagine how good our kids would shoot and what they’d look like doing it?”

The sheriff wanted to laugh, hut instead he turned a dark eye on Roy Bob. “So someone waltzes right in here and starts shooting. You gambling again, Roy Bob? You stupid enough to take on old Mr. Pratt after what he did to you last fall? You know he explodes like a firecracker.”

Roy Bob drew himself up. “No, sir. I haven’t gambled since Ellie walked out on me. I’ve been too depressed, just sitting home, beer and baseball my only pleasures.”

The sheriff sighed. “All right then, Roy Bob, Deputy Glenda is going to help you over to the clinic.”

“No, Sheriff, not Deputy Glenda, she’s not too pleased with me right now. Besides, I ain’t no wuss, I can get there under my own steam. Hey, Rachael, I’m thinking you look familiar.”

“That’s because I shoot well,” she said, and poked him in his good arm.

The sheriff said, “Okay, Roy Bob, you go on over, see Dr. Post. As for you, Miss Abercrombie, I need you to come back to the office with me and we’ll talk this all over, you can give me a formal statement. Hopefully Agent Savich and Sherlock will bring this fellow down.”

“Roy Bob, about my car—”

“You gonna hurt my other arm if I don’t fix your fuel pump right away, Rachael?”

Rachael pointed gun fingers at him. “I just might. Then you might think I look like your mother.”

Roy Bob laughed, then moaned as he jerked his arm. “I’ll get to it then.”

But not in time. Now, how was she to get away from Sheriff Hollyfield?

The sheriff turned to see his youngest, greenest deputy come running into the bay.

Deputy Theodore Osgood, called Tooth because one of his front teeth was chipped half off, just turned twenty-one, was big, beefy, and panting. He wheezed out, “That guy in the black truck—he nearly hit old Mrs. Crump—missed her, but scared her so bad she fell into a hydrant. We’re getting her over to the clinic.”

Rachael wasn’t listening. She was thinking, He’ll get away, monsters always get away. Two and a half days since they’d tossed her into Black Rock Lake tied to a concrete block. Didn’t matter how they knew she was here, they’d found her, and now things were critical. She had to get out of Parlow, now. She had to get to Slipper Hollow.

But how? ELEVEN

The sheriff was right, Savich thought as he sped the powerful Chevy to Judge Hardesty’s airfield. Bobby, their pilot, was sitting beneath a pine tree, puffing on a pipe, reading a Juan Cabrillo adventure.

He had them in the air in under five minutes.

Sherlock said into her headphones, “I bet he’s going to head back to the main highway, Bobby. He needs traffic to get lost in, and he’s not going to find it on this road.”

Savich said, “Agreed. We’re looking for a black Ford pickup, the first three letters of the license plate are F-T-E.”

Bobby swung the helicopter in a tight circle and headed toward the junction of 72 and 75.

Sherlock said as she scanned the highway below, “He’s also hurt, shot in the arm, so depending on how bad it is, he might drive erratically, maybe pass out, but there’s no way he’d stop.”

Bobby cruised at three hundred feet over the highway. Savich said, “Let’s not go any lower yet. People have seen enough attack helicopters in movies. We don’t want anyone to freak, cause an accident. Okay, traffic is getting heavier.”

Five minutes later Sherlock said, “There—there he is. He just turned off 75 onto a parallel access road. He’s in and out of sight, with all those trees canopying the road, and he’s having to go real slow what with all the ruts.”

Savich said, “You sure?”

“Yep, the license plate begins with F-T-E,” Sherlock shouted.

“Continue on about five miles, Bobby, then bring us down. Sherlock, make sure he stays on the access road.”

She grinned at him, gave him a thumbs-up.

The landscape was littered with dense clusters of oaks and pines, and rolling hills between higher peaks. About six miles up the road, Bobby brought them down not more than fifty feet from the access road. Savich and Sherlock jumped out of the helicopter, bent low, and ran toward the road.

Only seven minutes passed before they heard the Ford coming. SIGs drawn, they stood in the shadow of a trio of skinny pine trees.

When the truck was beside them, Savich fired three bullets into the front passenger-side tire and Sherlock blew out the back tire. When the truck swerved to a stop, Savich yelled, “Federal agents! Come on out now, easy!”

The driver’s-side door opened slowly. A man yelled, “I’m coming out, don’t shoot me!”

“Lock your hands behind your neck,” Savich shouted. He couldn’t see the man clearly, but he did see one hand go up to grasp his neck. That was okay, Rachael had shot him in the other arm. Then, so fast Savich barely had time to react, the man raised a pistol and fired off six fast rounds over the top of the hood. Savich fired back even as he hit the ground and rolled.

The man ducked behind the door, and Savich shoved a new magazine into his SIG and came up to his knees behind a big maple. He saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye making her way around the back of the truck. She looked back once to see that he was all right, then crouched down and ran.

Keep his attention on me. Savich shouted, “All right, you’ve had your go at me. You missed. There’ll be six cop cars here in about a minute. Do you want to die here? If so, then keep firing at me and I’ll oblige you. If not, throw your gun onto the road so I can see it. Now!”

Aeons passed, perhaps ten seconds, before the man finally called out, “All right, I’m coming out. Don’t shoot!”

Sherlock pressed her SIG against the back of his neck.

“Drop it now. Don’t even twitch or you’re a dead man.”

The man jerked in surprise, then dropped the gun at her feet.

“Glad to see you’re not a complete moron. Dillon, I’ve got him.”

Savich came around the front of the truck, his SIG trained on the man’s chest.

Sherlock pulled off the man’s sunglasses.

They stared into the eyes of a man whose face was gray with pain. “Rachael got you good, didn’t she?” Sherlock said.

He moved quickly, a small derringer in his hand, and grabbed Sherlock. But Savich was faster. He shot the man in the forearm of his gun hand.

The man screamed, the derringer went flying, and he dropped like a stone at Sherlock’s feet. He wasn’t unconscious, but his breathing was hard and strained. He was moaning, holding his forearm. He’d tied a dirty oil rag around his other arm. Savich picked up the derringer. “You were fast.”

“But not fast enough,” Sherlock said, and kicked him in the ribs.

“Bitch,” the man whispered.

“Yeah, that’s what all you losers say,” Sherlock said and went down on her knees to handcuff his wrists in front of him. She gave him a handkerchief. “Here, put some pressure on your forearm. You okay, Dillon?”

“No problem.” He wasn’t about to tell her his heart had dropped to his heels when the guy pulled out that derringer.

Sherlock said, “I can’t wait to find out who this moron is. Hey, buddy, you got a name for us?”

He mumbled something, still enough anger and venom in him to hear in his words.

“I don’t think that’s anatomically possible,” Sherlock said, and gave him another light kick with the toe of her boot.

Savich said, “Who trained you? You have been trained. You’re for hire, right?”

The man didn’t say anything, only moaned and pressed the handkerchief against his forearm. Savich dug into the man’s pockets but only came up with half a pack of sugarless gum and a Swiss Army knife.

Sherlock said, “You were afraid we’d catch you so you tossed out your wallet, didn’t you? Well, that’s the only thing you got right today. I bet you stole this truck, too, didn’t you? But you know, jerk-face, I’ll bet you’ve got priors, so you’re in the system. We’ll know all about you in no time at all.”

Forty-five minutes later, the man was in surgery at Franklin County Hospital, two floors down from where Dr. Timothy MacLean lay in a coma.

Sherlock called Sheriff Hollyfield’s office, spoke to Jack, told him to keep Rachael close. She and Savich met Dr. Hallick in Dr. MacLean’s room.

Savich and Sherlock had never met Dr. Timothy MacLean, had only seen photos of him. Jack had spoken of his kindness, his wit, his extraordinary insights, his empathy. MacLean and Jack’s dad were friends from way back, and the families had always known each other. MacLean had once played a mean game of tennis, and had one grandchild by his second daughter. They both looked down silently at his waxy gray face. With all the tubes that tethered him to life, they wondered if there was any way he could pull through. He looked withered, a decade older than his forty-nine years.

Dr. Hallick listened to Dr. MacLean’s heart, took his pulse, then straightened. “We almost had to put him on a respirator when his breathing became erratic. Strange thing is, there is no obvious trauma to his brain on the MRI, except perhaps some slight edema. Bottom line, we don’t know why Dr. MacLean isn’t awake. The fact is, the brain is still something of a mystery to us.

“What we did notice was atrophy—shrinkage—of the front lobes of his brain. Your colleague Agent Crowne called me and helped us get in touch with his doctors at Duke University Unfortunately for Dr. MacLean, they’d concluded he has frontal lobe dementia, even before this happened. It’s a hell of a thing, a man as distinguished as Dr. MacLean, losing his mind so early.”

Sherlock said, “Yes, we were aware of that, Doctor. Could Dr. MacLean’s frontal lobe dementia be contributing to his not waking up?”

“Unlikely, but according to Dr. Kelly, our neurologist, there’s very little experience with that question.” He shrugged. “Nothing more to be done except to wait and see. He’s got two broken ribs and a gash on his chest we’ve sutured and will need to keep an eye on.”

As for their shooter, he was still in surgery. They’d taken his fingerprints before he’d gone in and they’d find out soon who he was. Neither Savich nor Sherlock had a doubt he was in the database.

When they walked out of Dr. MacLean’s room, they saw Sheriff Hollyfield leaning against the opposite wall. He’d changed out of his bib overalls and into black slacks, a white shirt, a wool jacket, and boots. He was a slender man, fit, with a pleasant face and dark eyes that had the awareness and intensity shared by most cops. “What do they say about Dr. MacLean? Is he going to make it?”

“It’s complicated,” Savich said. “Hey, I miss your other duds.”

“Yeah, that’s what Jack said. Listen, Agent Savich, I do complicated real good. Why don’t you call me Dougie?”

Savich looked at him. “I can’t.”

Sheriff Hollyfield grinned. “Yeah, I understand.”

“But Dougie went real well with the bib overalls,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, yeah, why don’t we have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and you can tell me what’s going on with this guy. Jack and Rachael are both okay, so don’t worry about them. I had to leave them in Parlow since Jack still wasn’t looking too hot. I got the impression, though, that he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight. They went back to the B&B.”

While Savich sipped his tea, the sheriff said, “Before I left Jack and Rachael to drive up here, Tommy Jerkins, your FBI expert, reported in. He found remnants of an explosive—Semtex, he thinks—but the detonator malfunctioned, didn’t set off all the plastic explosive.

“After the wheels hit the ground, the fuel exploded the rest of the Semtex. Tommy said Jack is a very lucky man. Even without the bomb detonating, the Cessna was disabled enough to send him right into the mountains.

“Given how inaccessible the mountains are, even if the bomb had blown them out of the sky, the chances are Search and Rescue wouldn’t have found enough of either of them or the wreckage to determine anything. It probably would have been deemed pilot error.

“Jack said he was going to miss that plane,” the sheriff continued. “He told me she’s gotten him out of a few tight spots. I told him a wreath might help.”

Sherlock said, “The person behind this murder attempt will come after Dr. MacLean again. This was his third try, no reason he’ll stop now.

“Maybe he’ll come after Jack, as well, if he assumes Dr. MacLean told Jack about a patient’s illegal activities, maybe even where to find proof.”

Savich said, “Our lab will examine what’s left of the bomb and the Semtex, see if they can tell where it’s from. Our people in Lexington are all over the private section of the airport, questioning everyone. Somebody had to see something.”

Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Jack said Dr. MacLean didn’t tell him any specifics like that. And that’s when Jack said he wasn’t capable. I asked him how that was possible, and he said Dr. MacLean didn’t remember.”

Sheriff Hollyfield looked suddenly very tough. “Anyone going to explain this to me?”

Sharp and clean, Savich thought, that was Sheriff Hollyfield’s brain. He looked over at Sherlock. She nodded. Savich said, “Dr. MacLean has an increasingly debilitating brain disorder called frontal lobe dementia. The prognosis for anyone who’s unlucky enough to get it isn’t good.”

“Dementia? But this man isn’t old.”

“No, he’s not,” Sherlock said. “Frontal lobe dementia can strike middle-aged people.”

“What are his symptoms?”

Savich said, “The disease reduces his inhibitions, makes him say and do uncharacteristic things—like telling the minister after church services that he’s a sanctimonious prig, telling a woman she looks fat, attacking a guy for eyeing his wife—social gaffes like that. Sometimes he remembers saying these things, sometimes he doesn’t. If he does remember, he tends to dismiss them, doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with saying them.

“As his disease has progressed, Dr. MacLean has started telling tales about his famous patients, even to his tennis partner. Privileged doctor/patient exchanges. Again, he doesn’t necessarily remember what he’s divulged, and if he does remember, he doesn’t think it’s any big deal.

“As you can imagine, Sheriff Hollyfield, this is not good since many of his patients are very famous and very powerful. And since he’s in Washington, we’re talking lots of politicians, some corporate bigwigs.”

Sherlock said, “Dr. MacLean has a huge reputation, he’s known for his bone-deep discretion before this disease struck him.”

Sheriff Hollyfield said, frowning at a dustpan propped against the wall in the corner of the cafeteria, “Thank you for filling in the blanks. That makes it all very straightforward. Someone decided to take him out to protect himself.”

Savich nodded. “Depending on what Dr. MacLean divulged, and to whom, it could ruin patients’ reputations and careers, even send them to prison.

“One person we know for certain Dr. MacLean talked to was, as I already told you, his longtime tennis partner, Arthur Dolan, who died two Fridays ago, after driving off the road and over a cliff near Morristown, New Jersey. The case is still open, but the local cops are leaning toward an accident. The FBI began questioning MacLean’s family and friends. He did indeed speak to several friends, revealed juicy tidbits. However, he didn’t give out any patient names to those particular people.”

Sherlock said, “But still, whoever is behind this was worried Arthur Dolan would spill out names sooner or later, so he or she killed him.”

“A preemptive strike,” said the sheriff, “and that bespeaks a powerful motive, doesn’t it?”

“I’d say so,” said Savich.

The sheriff said, “Did Dr. MacLean remember enough of what he’d said to his tennis partner to be frightened?”

Savich said, “No, but Dr. MacLean’s wife Molly doesn’t believe for a minute it was an accident. She knew, you see, what Timothy was doing, and was frantic. She called his family, in Lexington, told them what was going on. Then someone tried to run him down in Washington, near their house. They flew him back to Lexington, then traveled to Durham to get him diagnosed by a physician at Duke University. After an attempt on his life in Lexington, Mrs. MacLean called Jack to ask for help. The FBI cleared it, and Jack flew out to get him. Then this happened.”

Sheriff Hollyfield said, “Is Dr. MacLean now on any medication? Something to control the symptoms?”

Sherlock said, “Unfortunately, there isn’t any treatment for this disease. It will continue to progress until he dies.”

Sheriff Hollyfield’s beeper went off. He looked down at the number, excused himself, and went off to find a hospital phone to use.

He was back in five minutes. “That was Jack. He said Rachael is threatening to go down to Roy Bob’s and steal one of his cars. He said he’s not really feeling up to chasing her down and tying her to a chair so he wants you guys to come back and talk her into telling us the truth.”

Sheriff Hollyfield looked from one face to the other. “I don’t think you guys are going to sleep for a good while yet. Let’s go back to Parlow and have Rachael tell us why someone walked into Roy Bob’s garage and tried to shoot her.” He paused for a moment. “Why wouldn’t she want to level with you? I mean, she’s Jack’s girlfriend, isn’t she?” TWELVE

Jack said to Sherlock as she walked into the sheriff’s office, Savich and the sheriff following her, “I think she wants to hotwire a car. I’ve threatened to lock her in a cell, but I really don’t want to since she saved my neck. I need reinforcements.”

Savich said, “If she hotwires a car, that’d be okay, then we could arrest her.”

Sheriff Hollyfield took the chair behind his desk, motioned for them to sit down. He looked at each of them, shaking his head. “I never knew the feds could be so much fun.”

Rachael was wringing her hands. She noticed it and wanted to kick herself. How had she fallen so low so quickly? She looked at the expectant faces surrounding her. “I don’t know how to hotwire a car,” she said.

Sheriff Hollyfield said, “I’m the sheriff of Parlow, Ms. Abercrombie. I would like you to tell me why this yahoo who is currently residing in the Franklin County Hospital tried to kill you.”

Rachael knew anyone in this office could run her license plate, find out who she was in a flash. What with the shooting, she had no doubt that now they’d do it if she didn’t level with them. Well, obviously Quincy and Laurel already knew she was alive, since they’d already tried to kill her again.

She supposed if she had to trust someone, it might as well be three FBI agents and a sheriff.

She nodded slowly, looking at each of them. “There’s no reason to keep my mouth shut now. I don’t know what you can do, but maybe you can help me. If there are FBI leaks, well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? They know I’m not dead. I’m sort of like Dr. MacLean, I guess you could say. The people after me aren’t about to stop until I am.”

“Well then, Rachael Whatever Your Name Is, tell us everything,” Jack said.

“Last Friday night when I got home I found a bottle of red wine on the kitchen table. To be honest here, I was depressed, tired, and I think I would have downed the whole bottle if I hadn’t had a roaring headache. Lucky for me I only had one drink, because the wine was drugged.

“The effects of the drug were wearing off while they were carrying me out on a dock. There were two of them, one carrying me under my arms, the other, my feet. They hadn’t tied my wrists together, simply tied my arms down to my sides. But they had tied my ankles together. I guess right before they threw me into the lake, they must have attached the rope to a block of concrete, though I don’t remember that specifically.

“They threw me into the water as far as they could. When the block hit, it dragged me down to the bottom.” Her voice started shaking, her whole body was shaking. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock stuck a cup of water in her hand. “Drink, take deep breaths.”

Rachael drank. “I’m okay, sorry. I had the brains to keep quiet so they didn’t realize I’d woken up. I sucked in a lot of air before going under, instinct, I guess. I didn’t want to die. They obviously didn’t know I’d been a big-time swimmer in college, and I had great breath control. I managed to get my arms free, then get my ankles untied and swim to the surface.”

She heard Jack curse and looked at him. She didn’t think she’d ever seen naked rage before, but now she did and she recognized it for what it was. It warmed her, gave her balance.

Savich said matter-of-factly, “You’re quite amazing, Rachael, I hope you realize that. You didn’t panic and drown. No, you got yourself free. You survived.”

“I was terrified, truth be told, but I didn’t want to die. I made it back up, yes, managed to clear the surface because I knew they’d still be standing on the dock, looking down for any sign that I was still alive, you know, bubbles. I swam underwater to the pilings and hid there. I heard them talking, but I couldn’t tell you if they were male, female, or both. I heard them leave. I saw the taillights drive off into the distance. I walked to a little diner in Oranack, Maryland, and from there got a taxi home.

“I got out of there as fast as I could. I drove only at night, took two and a half days to get here because ... Well, truth is I was scared. I wanted to get lost on the back roads. I wanted to know in my gut that it was over, that they believed me dead and weren’t like some bogeyman ready to jump out and kill me.

“I was wrong. They found out—how, I don’t know.”

Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Someone saw you. Did you see anybody at all when you arrived back at your house, or when you left?”

Rachael shook her head. “No, but I was focused on packing my stuff and getting out of there. You’re right, Sherlock, that makes more sense than diving into the lake to see if the block and I were still together. Whatever happened, they found out I was still breathing and figured out where I was heading. They moved very fast.”

She paused, looked at each of them now. “Do you believe me?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, “oh yes.”

Savich said, “Would there be anyone who would report you missing?”

Rachael shook her head. “The man who tried to kill me in Roy Bob’s garage, do you know who he is yet?”

Sherlock pulled a small notebook out of her jacket pocket, glanced at it and said, “Our shooter’s name is Roderick Lloyd, thirty-nine years old, a supposed freelance journalist—har har—not married, lives in an apartment in Falls Church. He started his bad ways early—juvenile record for ag assaults, multiple car thefts, robbing a convenience store, you get the idea. His mother cut him loose at sixteen. She remarried and moved to Oregon, smart woman.

“It was the attempted murder of a DEA agent during a drug bust that finally nailed him. He spent a measly eight years in our fine facility outside Detroit—not enough, but the prosecutors cut him a deal, netted two bigger drug dealers.

“Mr. Maitland is getting a warrant as we speak and our people will go over his apartment with tweezers. Dillon has MAX checking on possible employers, property tax records, offshore accounts, whatever.

“The staff at Franklin County Hospital said when he came out of recovery, all he did was moan and demand a lawyer. So that was it.

“He’ll leave the hospital in two or three days—and be accompanied by our people back to Washington. His photo should be coming through your fax, Sheriff, any minute.”

Sheriff Hollyfield nodded. “Good work. For what it’s worth, I checked on Roy Bob because of his gambling issues. Nothing there. Dr. Post stitched up his arm. He’s okay.”

Rachael said, “This man, Roderick Lloyd, I have no idea who he is. I don’t know his name, I never saw him before in my life. For heaven’s sake, sit down before you fall over, Jack. You should have stayed in bed, you idiot.”

“Me? An idiot?”

“Yes, you. Your head’s beginning to hammer again, I can tell. You need another pain pill.” Jack wasn’t overly surprised when Sherlock tapped his arm and handed him a cup of water, but he didn’t want any more pain meds. They fuzzed his brain.

“Pay attention, Jack,” Rachael said. “Pain isn’t good for the healing process, so quit being so macho.”

“That’s right, Jack,” Sherlock said, “down the hatch.”

He kept his eyes on Rachael as he swallowed the pill. “You didn’t want to tell us anything because you were so afraid this man, woman, whatever, would hear about your being alive and come after you again? Well, you kept quiet and they still found you. I agree with Sherlock. It makes more sense that someone saw you; probably one of your would-be killers was at your house or arrived as you were leaving.”

“Or,” Savich said, “there was something they wanted to get from the house, saw you, and probably freaked.”

“Really, I didn’t see anyone when I drove back to my house, not a soul. And I was in and out so fast.”

Sheriff Hollyfield said, “They knew you were headed this way. You said you weren’t from around here. Where do you live?”

“I lied. I did grow up here—well, not right in town. They must have known about Parlow, Kentucky. But this wasn’t my final destination. I was going to hide out in Slipper Hollow until I figured out how I could get them.”

Sheriff Hollyfield sat back, crossed his arms over his chest. “Well now, even the folks who live here don’t know much of anything about Slipper Hollow. I don’t even know where it is exactly. I never had a call to go there.”

“Slipper Hollow?” Savich’s eyebrow went up.

“It’s where I grew up. It’s hidden, only my uncle Gillette lives there. I’d be safe there, with him, figure out what to do.”

Jack perked up. “You want revenge, do you?”

“Oh yes. I want to nail them. I just have to figure out how. Now it’s a different ball game again.”

Savich said, “You keep referring to them. You know who tried to kill you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Who?”

Rachael drew in a big breath, ready to shake her head. Then she grinned. “No more secrets on my part. I think it’s the Abbotts.”

“Abbotts?” Jack repeated, eyebrow up in question.

Sherlock said, “Are you referring to Senator John James Abbott of Maryland? Are you referring to the Abbott family?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you, Rachael?” Jack asked, sitting forward in his chair.

“Well, the fact is, I’m a bastard.”

They heard Mort the dispatcher hiccup a laugh from just outside the sheriff’s door. Sheriff Hollyfield frowned toward the door, but didn’t say anything.

Sherlock said, “And who is John James Abbott to you?”

“He’s my father.”

After a moment of stunned silence, Jack said, “I, for one, am glad it’s not some Mafia don, that’s just too clichéd. Or a wild-eyed terrorist, a jihad wouldn’t make anybody’s day. That would have made me wonder why Timothy and I couldn’t have been saved by a local soccer mom. You’re a senior senator’s bastard daughter?”

“Yep, that’s me. I didn’t know anything about my dad or who he was until about two months ago, when my mother finally told me.”

Savich said, “And you’re saying Senator Abbott’s family is trying to kill you?” THIRTEEN

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Whoa,” Sherlock said. “Let’s back up a minute. Where’s your mom?”

“She lives in Richmond with her husband and my half brother, Ben. Like I said, my uncle Gillette’s the only one who lives in Slipper Hollow now. Actually, I was raised there, with Parlow the closest town, until I was twelve and my mom and I moved to Richmond.”

Jack said, “Rachael, you’re almost thirty years old! Why did your mom wait so long to tell you John James Abbott was your father? You said she only told you two months ago?”

“She said she wanted to wait until his father died—that’s Carter Blaine Abbott—which he did finally, four months ago.”

“The Carter Blaine Abbott?” Sheriff Hollyfield said, his jaw dropping. “That’s right, I forgot Senator Abbott was his son.”

Savich said slowly, never looking away from Rachael’s face, “The old man was a legend. Word was he had ropes of power around the throats of many world leaders, both in business and in government. I think the president heaved a sigh of relief when the old robber baron finally died.”

Sherlock nodded. “I read he ruled his family like he ruled his empire—you got out of line, he crushed you.”

“He didn’t crush Jimmy—my father.”

“No, he didn’t, did he? I wonder why?”

“Jimmy said his father actually came to believe his eldest son would make a fine president, but only if dear old dad—Carter Blaine Abbott—was still alive to tell him how to run things. Jimmy said that was the only time he could remember his father ever changing his mind about anything.”

“Damn, Rachael,” Jack said, “my hair’s standing on end. You’re really related to these people? Their blood runs in your veins?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Rachael said.

Sherlock said, “You said your mother wanted to wait to tell you until after the old man died. Why?”

“She told me she hated to admit it, but she was still afraid of the old bastard. She said that even though she knew intellectually all that was left of him was a moldering carcass, she would swear she could still sense him—a malevolence that gave her nightmares.”

“Tell us what happened,” Savich said.

Rachael stared at the big tough federal agent who looked like he ate nails for breakfast. All his attention was focused on her, and it was formidable. Then he leaned over, patted her hand. “Stop worrying. Everything will be all right.” It broke her. She leaned against the wall, looked at each of them in turn, pausing a moment longer on Jack’s face. He looked too pale, she thought. She said, “Needless to say, my mom was afraid of Carter Blaine Abbott. When he found out his eldest son—his ticket to immortality—was dating my mother, a small-town girl with no pedigree, no money, a backwoods hick, in his mind, he wasn’t happy. He was big into bloodlines.”

“What was your father doing here anyway?” Sherlock asked.

“My mom told me the local mill owner’s son was one of Jimmy’s good friends. That’s when there was a mill here. Mr. Abbott swooped into town and took them both off to vacation in Spain. As you would expect, the mill owner’s family didn’t object to that.”

Jack nodded. “All right. So your mom was pregnant. She never told your father?”

“No, she didn’t tell anyone. Well, she had to tell Uncle Gillette, her brother. By this time, her folks, my grandparents, were both dead. She told me she was bitter, for a very long time, bitter and very angry. And scared. She was shocked when she got a letter from Carter Blaine Abbott some five months later, telling her he’d heard she was pregnant and there was no way he was going to let her blame it on his son, no way he was going to let her drag his family into it. If he ever heard a word out of her, if she ever tried to contact his son, he’d see that both she and her brat were taken care of. What did he mean by that?” Rachael shrugged. “Mom was sure he meant he would kill her and her baby. He enclosed a check for five thousand dollars.” Rachael added, “Mom tore the check up, gave birth to me, and, as it turned out, I didn’t look like either of them until I was a teenager. By the time I was eighteen, though, I was the spitting image of Senator John James Abbott, although no one ever seemed to notice the resemblance. I guess you wouldn’t, if you didn’t know the history. But I think that until two months after old man Abbott died, she was still afraid of him.

“So Jimmy never knew about me until I showed up on his office doorstep at the Capitol, a couple of weeks after my mom finally told me about him.

“I’ll tell you, at first I didn’t want to go. I guess I was angry at him, too, even though Mom swore he never knew about me. I remember way back when I was maybe five or so, I asked her about my father, if he died, if he ran out on us. She wouldn’t tell me anything, but I saw her crying in her room, and so I never brought it up again.

“She convinced me to give him a chance. She didn’t know, she said, what kind of reception I was going to get from him, but wasn’t it worth a try?

“I agreed with her. It was time I met the man who sired me. I didn’t have a clue where he lived and neither did she, so like I said, I went to his Senate office. He was coming back from lunch with his aide, Greg Nichols. He saw me standing there, staring at him. He did a classic double take, then he broke into this huge grin, called out my mom’s name, Angela. He didn’t wait for an answer, just rushed me into his office, past all his staff, past people waiting to see him.

“I can still see that smile of his, it was radiant. He grabbed my hands and began dancing me around his office. Then he hugged me until I thought my ribs would crack.” Her voice shook and she ducked her head down. “He never voiced a single doubt that I was his daughter. Believe me, I never expected anything like that even though the resemblance between us is strong. It... it was wonderful.”

Jack asked after a moment, “Senator Abbott has other kids, doesn’t he?”

“Yep, I got two instant half sisters. Jimmy and his wife divorced about ten years ago. His ex-wife lives in Vail, Colorado, and both his daughters are married. I got the impression there wasn’t much love lost between Jimmy and Jacqueline—that’s his ex-wife. He never remarried, never wanted to, he told me. He said he sees his daughters twice a year, usually skiing somewhere, and spends Thanksgiving with his brother, Quincy, his sister, Laurel, and her husband, Stefanos Kostas, and their two boys at Kostas’s house—ha, it’s really a mansion—outside Hailstone, Maryland. There’s a gatehouse, extensive grounds all enclosed behind a high stone wall, and a night guard. Jimmy said Thanksgiving is always very cordial but really pretty sad.

“I told him all about Slipper Hollow and Uncle Gillette and how we’d all lived there together, except for his stint in the first Gulf War, until I was twelve and we moved to Richmond.

“Jimmy had never heard of the hollow. I guess my mom had been too embarrassed to tell him, thought Slipper Hollow was too hick for the likes of his fancy rich self. He’d always known, he told me, that she lived in or around Parlow, but she’d never offered to take him to her house.

“He wanted to know everything about Angela—my mom. But he didn’t want to call her, didn’t want to disrupt her life. I agreed with that. My stepfather’s a great guy, but having a wealthy senator suddenly stick his nose in wouldn’t be pleasant for him. And my mom realized this, of course, and told me she was fine seeing us reunite without her involved. Jimmy would have enjoyed Ben, my half brother, but there was never the chance.”

Sherlock said, “So you think the people who tried to kill you are Quincy Abbott and Laurel Abbott Kostas?”

“That’s right. I wouldn’t be surprised if Laurel’s husband Stefanos was involved, too.”

Jack said, “Your father died in a car accident three weeks ago, right?”

“Yes,” Rachael said, “he did.”

Jack said, “Wasn’t there drinking involved?”

Rachael’s voice turned hard. “That’s what everyone believes. The police said he’d been drinking and driving, alone, and he lost control of his car, but I know that isn’t true. There’s no way it was an accident.

“He was murdered. I knew that immediately. I remember standing in the huge foyer after all the police, the federal investigators, and the people from the state department left, and I thought about how I’d never really believed in evil, in something cold to the soul. I knew they’d killed Jimmy—there was no doubt about it in my mind. But I didn’t have any proof, and that’s why I ran after they tried to drown me, why I didn’t go to the police. I guess after Jimmy died so violently, I was in shock, as well. I was trying to figure things out, but I didn’t have time.”

“So you’re saying that Laurel Kostas and Quincy Abbott killed your father and are now trying to kill you,” said Sheriff Hollyfield. “Truth is, Rachael, I’d want to get your head examined for a tale like that, but hey, look what’s happened right here in Parlow. I’d have to agree, that sounds pretty evil. I’ll bet you everyone in this room has close-up and personal experience with evil.”

No one disagreed.

Sherlock said, “Dillon and I met your father at a charity benefit at the Bentley Gallery in Georgetown not too long ago. You weren’t there. Neither of us even knew about you.”

“I don’t remem— Wait, yes, it was a last-minute deal. One of Jimmy’s lady friends took me to New York to shop because he was throwing a party for me; he was going to introduce me to everyone, including handsome young men who would trample each other trying to get to me.” She smiled, shrugged. “There was never any party. He was dead the next week.”

Sherlock said, “Did you know your father was a friend of Dillon’s boss, Jimmy Maitland? He was one of the pallbearers at his funeral. Mr. Maitland always called him John, as I recall, never Jimmy. Given they’re both Jimmys, I suppose Mr. Maitland didn’t want to deal with the name confusion.”

“I didn’t know that. I mean, I stood in a receiving line with all the other Abbotts, including my two half sisters, to greet all the people who came to his funeral. I don’t remember a Mr. Maitland. But that day was such a blur.”

“After his funeral,” Savich said, “you simply dropped out of sight. The funeral was nearly three weeks ago. Why would they leave you alone for three weeks, then try to kill you? Why not kill you right away, in another accident? How do you explain that, Rachael?”

“Well, in truth, there wasn’t time for me to be on the radar. Jimmy and I only had about six weeks together before his death.” She paused, head down. Jack saw her twisting her fingers in her lap. Then she raised her face and said, voice composed, “They didn’t have a chance to kill me because I left Washington the day after Jimmy’s funeral. I just knew I’d be next. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, not even my mom. I got back to Jimmy’s house last Tuesday. Well, now it’s my house, since Jimmy left it to me. It only took them three days to act.”

“Where did you go?” Jack asked.

“To Sicily, to a little town on the coast, not yet discovered by tourists. I hunkered down, I guess you’d say. I had a lot of thinking to do, but I knew I had to come back to Washington, I had to deal with his estate and his family—and his murder—and so I came back nearly two weeks to the day after his funeral. I wasn’t even back a week before they threw me into the lake.”

Sherlock said, “Let’s back up a bit. You think your father was murdered, but his death was ruled an accident. But there was a thorough investigation, everyone was convinced. Do you have any proof otherwise?”

“Not hands-on proof, no.”

“Tell us what you have,” Jack said.

“Okay. Two days after I came back, Jimmy’s lawyer, Brady Cullifer, called. He was rather upset with me since I’d taken off without telling him and he hadn’t known where to find me. There was Jimmy’s new will, you see. Jimmy left me his house and split the rest of his estate among his three daughters. Mr. Cullifer told me he’d already notified Laurel Kostas and Quincy Abbott about what was in Jimmy’s will, told them Jimmy hadn’t left them anything. Oh yes, I forgot—Jimmy adopted me. It came through only days before his death, so I was legally his, surely a record, Mr. Cullifer told me.”

Sherlock said, “Was your father’s divorce messy?”

“You’re thinking his ex-wife could have killed him? I don’t think so. I met Jacqueline and their two daughters, my half sisters, Elaine and Carla, and their husbands at his funeral. They were all very kind to me, very civilized. Jacqueline was very distant, as if she were bored with all of it. His daughters were in shock, quiet, withdrawn, but it seemed to me they were thrilled to leave Washington, which they did the very next morning, and I left three hours after they did.

“I returned from Italy last Tuesday night. Friday night I drank a bit of the red wine that was evidently drugged. When I came back to the house later that night, the wine was gone.”

Jack said, “Do you think the lawyer, Brady Cullifer, was part ofit too?”

“I thought he was for maybe ten seconds. But it just didn’t make any sense. He’d been with Jimmy for years and years. He had no reason to hurt me. Laurel and Quincy put the drugged wine there, I know it.”

Savich said, “Okay, let’s get to the root. You were telling us why you believe your father’s sister and brother murdered him. Keep going, Rachael. Convince us.”

“It’s a long story, and it’s not my story. Since it isn’t about me, that’s why I didn’t say anything right after his death.” She looked miserable. “I don’t know, I just ...”

“Too late for that,” Jack said. “Come on, Rachael, spill it all. This is about your father, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“And a major disagreement with his siblings?”

She nodded again.

“You call your father Jimmy,” Sherlock said, backing off a bit.

“Yes. I wasn’t comfortable yet calling him Dad. Look, the rest of it, I simply don’t know if ...”

“Anything you tell us doesn’t go out of this room,” Jack said. “Everyone agrees?”

She looked at each of them as they nodded.

Still, it was difficult. To even think about what had happened was hard, but to speak about it, openly, she didn’t know if she could. But, finally, she knew she had no choice. “All right, I have to trust someone, and you guys seem like my best bet. But it’s got to remain a secret. You’ve agreed, right?”

They all nodded, Jack’s head to the side, frowning at her. “What’s the big secret, Rachael? Senator Abbott was a spy or something?”

“No, no, but ... all right. If I can’t trust you folks, then I might as well hang it up.” FOURTEEN

“I told you that Jimmy overwhelmed me with his welcome, his generosity to me. He was open, he was loving, he wanted to hear every detail of every year of my life.” She smiled at that. “But I began to notice that he would fall silent at odd moments, that he seemed disturbed and despondent about something. When I pressed him on it, he finally told me what he’d done. I believe he wanted to tell me, that I was like this miracle, and if he told me maybe he’d at least partly make up for this bad thing he’d done. And he was so desperately alone, so desperately afraid.

“About a year and a half ago, Jimmy was driving through Delancey Park on his way home. It was late, sunset, he’d had a couple of martinis with colleagues. He was talking on his cell, not really paying much attention. A little girl on a bicycle came pedaling in front of his car. He hit her, killed her. He panicked and drove away, called his senior aide, Greg Nichols, who came to him immediately.

“His aide—you need to understand about him. Greg is maybe in his late thirties. He’s very smart—intuitive, I guess you’d say—and driven. His ambition was to see Jimmy in the White House. Jimmy trusted him, admired his brain, his drive, his commitment. Greg convinced Jimmy to keep it quiet, that if it got out he’d killed a child— accident or not—his career, his life, his family, would be ruined, he could even go to jail, convicted of vehicular homicide and leaving the scene of an accident.

“I’m not trying to excuse what he did, but Greg is the king of persuasion; he could convince the Pope to convert to Islam. Fact was, Greg himself would also be ruined if Jimmy confessed to killing the little girl. He’d be done in Washington, that’s for sure, and so he worked very hard to convince Jimmy that the best thing, the smartest thing, the only logical thing, was to keep his mouth shut and simply leave the little girl right where she was. Bottom line, Jimmy told me, he wanted to be convinced, and so he was. And yes, he knew very well that Greg was being self-serving, but who cared? He was too concerned about his own future.

“He told me how hard he tried to excuse himself—you know, if the girl’s parents had been with her, as they should have been, it wouldn’t have happened. What kind of parents let their kid ride alone in a public park anyway? There were predators in public parks, were her parents idiots? But he said no matter how hard he tried to make excuses for himself, it never worked.

“He spoke of the personal consequences—unrelenting guilt, recurring nightmares of his hitting the little girl, over and over, he said, how he found himself disengaged more and more from Capitol Hill, from his colleagues, his family, his staff, that even therapy hadn’t helped. He’d lived with this for so long, it seemed like forever, it was eating him up inside. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He told me he was thinking about going to the police, telling them what he’d done, announcing it to the world. He wanted to know what I thought.

“I saw what a wreck he was, how what he’d done was debilitating him, but now that I had found him, I didn’t want to lose him, to have him plunge himself into a scandal. But I could see what it was doing to him, and so I said he should do what he believed was right, that no matter what he did, I was behind him one hundred percent, and I would always be at his side. Let the world do its worst, I told him, I wasn’t going anywhere. But it was up to him. His decision, his life.”

Rachael paused for a moment, her eyes unfocused. She swallowed, said, “I can see so clearly that twisted smile he gave me. He said the shrink he’d been seeing had never spoken about confessing what he’d done; the shrink had only spoken of forgiving himself for an unfortunate mistake. Unfortunate mistake, he repeated, the little girl was nothing more than an unfortunate mistake.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up. “A shrink?”

“Yes, he went to a psychiatrist for maybe six months. Jimmy told me Greg hadn’t believed it smart to see a local psychiatrist—too much chance for it to get out since there were probably three news sharks hanging around every doctor’s office to see if any of the great and famous paid them a visit.”

She took a deep breath, looked at all of them. “Jimmy finally decided to call a press conference. He was going to confess what he’d done, then go to the police. Only thing is, he didn’t have the chance. He died.”

Sherlock said, “Since you believe the Abbotts killed him, he must have told his sister and brother what he was going to do, right?”

“Yes, he told them.”

“Did he call his ex-wife and his daughters?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he did since the fallout would affect them. I’m sure he gave everyone close to him fair warning, probably begged for their understanding and forgiveness since they’d have to deal with the consequences. I believe his brother Quincy told him to plant a tree in her memory, in Delancey Park, where he’d hit her.”

Savich looked up from MAX’s screen. “The little girl’s name was Melissa Parks. Her case remains open. A hit-and-run.”

“Anything else about her we should know?” Sherlock asked.

“A year ago, Melissa Parks’s family received an envelope containing one hundred thousand dollars in untraceable small bills with a note that said only ‘I’m sorry’. It revved up the investigation again, but since they couldn’t trace the money, or the note, it once again went cold.”

“Jimmy didn’t tell me about that,” Rachael said. “I remember a couple of days after he told me about the accident, I walked into his study and saw him staring at his phone. I knew he wanted to call Melissa’s parents, call the police, simply end it all, right then. Unfortunately he waited a few more days, warned those who would take a hit, and then he was dead.”

Sherlock said, “Rachael, you know for sure your father told his family and Greg Nichols, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I have to tell you, I have a hard time believing that his confession would enrage his family to such a degree that they’d kill him.”

“There’s more. The reason his death was declared an accident was because when the two patrolmen found Jimmy’s Beemer at the bottom of a cliff, Jimmy was alone in the driver’s seat. They said they could smell the alcohol on him. They said it was apparent he’d had too much to drink and lost control of his car, and hurtled down a steep embankment just off the Beltway, near Bethesda Navy Medical Center.”

“Yes, I remember that,” Sherlock said.

“Jimmy told me after he hit the little girl, he simply couldn’t make himself get behind the wheel any longer. The fact is, he stopped driving. It was manageable because he had a car and driver available to him. Not only that, he hadn’t had a drink since the night he killed the girl. That’s what he told me, and I believed him.”

“Then why didn’t you tell the police the truth?” Jack asked.

“I couldn’t,” Rachael said. “It would have meant telling them why he’d stopped drinking and hadn’t driven a car for the past eighteen months. I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it. All of it would have come out. It would have destroyed his legacy.” She drew a deep breath. “That was the main reason I took off for Sicily. I had to decide what to do. For two weeks I chewed it over every which way, and I came to a decision. I was coming back to Washington to tell the truth. Of course, I was going to discuss it with my mother, but I knew she would agree with me and it was what Jimmy would have done, what he was fully prepared to do. The least I could do for him was honor his wishes. After I nail Quincy and Laurel, I can and will do what Jimmy wanted to do. I will clear his conscience for him.”

Sheriff Hollyfield was tapping a pen on his desk blotter. He said thoughtfully “Your father’s dead, so is his conscience, so is his guilt. I’m thinking like his aide did—why ruin Senator Abbott’s name? Why ruin his memory? Why destroy what he stood for, what he was as a man for most of his lifetime? And that’s what would happen. The sum of his life would be forgotten—he’d end up being remembered for killing a child in a park, and hiding it.” He sat forward, his hands clasped.

“Rachael, do you want what happened in the final year and a half of your father’s life to define him? That he go down in history as the rich guy who killed a little girl when he was drunk?”

Rachael jumped to her feet, began to pace the small office. “I’ve used the very same argument to myself, but I know he wouldn’t! When I tell everyone how he’d planned to confess, surely they would see how moral he was, how ultimately honest.”

Jack said very gently, “I’ve known since I was twenty years old that the human mind doesn’t work like that. Sheriff Hollyfield is right—your father would be cut to pieces, all the good he ever did in his private life, in his political life, distorted, questioned, erased. As for you, there would be no recognition that you were simply following through on his wishes. You’d be the bastard daughter who destroyed her father’s name.”

“I know you’re trying to help, but again, I’ve thought about all this, and it doesn’t matter what anybody thinks or says about me. I think you’re wrong, Jack, you have to be.” She shook her head, then tucked her long hair behind her ears.

Savich looked up from MAX. “Did you tell anyone you were going to make your father’s confession for him since you’ve been back?”

“I told Mr. Cullifer, Jimmy’s lawyer. I’d have thought Jimmy would have filled him in on his plans, but he hadn’t. He was pretty emotionless about it, told me he’d suspected something was very wrong with Jimmy, asked if I had any proof, like fingerprints or witnesses, which of course I didn’t. He then said if I made Jimmy’s confession for him, I would find myself in a snake pit—people vilifying me, accusing me of lying because he left my mother all those years ago, that I was doing it to get back at him, and he wasn’t even here to defend himself. I’d thought about most of those things, but I’ll tell you, the way he spoke, the utter certainty in his voice, I was nearly ready to flip-flop on my decision. Then I found Jimmy’s journal. It was filled with his misery, his guilt, his hatred of himself for what he’d done, and that’s what made me decide to go ahead, no matter the fallout. I felt I owed it to him.

“I told Greg Nichols. He heard me out, then said he wasn’t about to help me destroy Senator Abbott’s name and drag the rest of his family through the muck. Of course, he’d be pulled into the muck himself, maybe even do some time in jail, but neither of us mentioned that.

“I didn’t want to talk to Laurel Kostas and Quincy Abbott since I believe to my toes they killed him, and why. I guess I felt deep down that they’d look at me the same way, as something to be kept silent, or like I was crazy or some sort of rodent who’d crawled into their beautiful, perfect lives.”

Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped between his legs. “It’s not difficult to connect the dots here. The Abbotts—their holdings and wealth are up there with the DuPonts, the Barringtons, the Jetty-Smiths. I can see they’d hate the scandal, the questions, the media probes about their family ethics, and all the rest. And a possible lawsuit by the little girl’s family, of course. Sure, they might have lost some of their A-list status, but it would have blown over, as every scandal does. But I can’t see them losing much of their money over it, and after all, their brother wasn’t some loser schmuck; he was a United States senator.

“I’m sorry, Rachael, but I can’t see one or all of them murdering him to keep him quiet. The motive isn’t there.”

Rachael said, “As an outsider, I saw them very clearly. I cannot tell you how very proud they are. Their sense of entitlement, their sense of worth, their arrogance—it’s off the scale. They worship their name, their lineage, worshipped their father, the founder of the Abbott dynasty. Laurel Kostas’s children attend the finest prep schools, and they’ll attend the finest colleges, both of them destined for power, destined to marry into other prominent families. And Jimmy’s two daughters attest to that. Both their husbands are from wealthy families as well.

“In their eyes, a scandal like this would ruin the family, and they wouldn’t accept that. They would determine that the removal of this threat was not only justified, it was rational. That’s why they killed Jimmy and have tried to kill me.” FIFTEEN

“And then three days later, you ended up drugged and thrown into Black Rock Lake,” Jack said.

“Yes.”

Savich added, “But bottom line, Rachael, all you have in the way of proof that he was murdered is your belief that your father had given up both driving and drinking.”

“If I’d managed to come up with any proof, I would have camped out at the gate of the White House while I called the Washington Post. I wouldn’t have run like a rabbit after they tried to drown me. Not that it mattered. They found me fast enough.”

Sherlock rose and stretched, nudged her husband’s shoulder. “Well, boss, what now?”

Savich grabbed her hand, gave it a squeeze. “First, Rachael, I want you to write all this down: Senator Abbott’s accidental killing of Melissa Parks, his death, your attempted murder—both times. Put in every detail you can think of. Do it fast. Make six copies. We’ll take a couple. I’m thinking it might be best to simply go public now. That should stop any more attempts on your life.”

She shook her head. “I’ll write everything down, but I don’t want to go public. Not just yet.”

“What? You like being bait?” Jack said.

She replied, “I don’t need your sarcasm, Agent Crowne. I’ll tell you, when I climbed out of that lake, I saw everything very clearly. I agree that going public might stop them, but they’ll get away with killing Jimmy, their own brother. I have to find proof, don’t you see? I want to bring them down, and if it means my neck is out there, then so be it.” She looked at each of them. “Maybe you can help me do this, maybe you can’t. But it’s my only goal at the moment. Then I’m going public and telling the world exactly what kind of man Jimmy was. After all, only an honorable man would feel such devastation about accidentally killing a child.

“I know you’re all concerned about the repercussions, but I firmly believe that people are forgiving.

“Now that I’ve spilled my guts to you, I’m going to get my car fixed, and I’m driving to Slipper Hollow. I’ve got lots of thinking to do, lots of planning, lots of writing things down, as Agent Savich wants.”

Savich said, “Rachael, what is the state of your finances?”

She blinked. “I suppose I’m very rich, at least in theory, since Jimmy left me one-third of his estate. In actuality, what I have is some money in my duffel I pulled out of Jimmy’s petty-cash box before I ran Friday night. I haven’t counted it, but there’s maybe a couple thousand. As to the disposition of the rest of his estate—I don’t really know. I intended to call Mr. Cullifer next week, ask him what to do about it.”

Savich typed something into MAX, then looked up. “I think it’s a good idea you disappear into Slipper Hollow for a while. Jack, can you escort her there, check everything out, make sure she’s safe?”

“Hold on, Savich What about Timothy? I’ve got—”

“He’s still unconscious,” Savich said. “We’re moving him to Washington tomorrow, easier to protect him. Another thing you need to do is put your head together with Rachael’s, make sure she gets all the details down. We’ll look for proof on our end. A few days. All right?”

“For a few days, then,” Jack said. “Rachael?”

“For a few days,” she repeated. “Then I want to come back and take them down.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Savich rose, shook Sheriff Hollyfield’s hand. “Thank you for all your assistance. I like Parlow, Kentucky. The sheriff of Maestro, Virginia, Dix Noble—he’s not more than three, four hours away—is a good friend. You two would have a lot to talk about—he was a detective with the NYPD before he moved to the boondocks. Don’t tell him I said so, but I’d put your brain right up there with his.

“We’ll keep in touch. Sherlock, you and I are going to spend the night near the hospital. Besides seeing Dr. MacLean, I want to see if our shooter, Roderick Lloyd, still wants a lawyer.”

“And here I’d counted on spending the night at Greeb’s B&B,” Sherlock said, “falling asleep with that stuffed duck’s head staring at me.”

Roy Bob was the wounded hero of Parlow. By the time he stepped out of the clinic, arm in a sling, both he, Rachael, and the gunman who’d shot up his garage were major celebrities.

Everyone wanted him to tell what had happened in the garage that day. He was strutting around in his bay, fiddling with Rachael’s Charger despite having his painful arm in a clumsy sling, half a dozen citizens marveling at his strength and stamina, when Jack and Rachael walked in.

“Hi,” he called out, buzzed on pain meds, happy as a clam. “Not much longer here, Rachael. I was telling all the guys you said you’d shoot me if I didn’t get it done fast. You know, Ted has offered to give you a free car wash.”

“Not enough time. We want to leave in an hour. Can you do it, Roy Bob?”

“Sure thing.”

“Did you really shoot that thug, ma’am?”

“Yes, I really shot him. He’s in the hospital, but he’s evidently not as stupid as I thought, since he won’t talk at all.”

They were quiet a moment, listening to the helicopter flying overhead.

“The FBI agents are leaving?”

Roy Bob nodded. “Yep, two of them. Agent Crowne here is staying to protect Rachael.” He paused, frowned. “I don’t think she needs it, though, like I was saying, the way she handled my pa’s Remington.”

Jack checked Roy Bob’s progress under the hood. “Looking good, Roy Bob. Why don’t we have Tony’s meatloaf at Monk’s Cafe, Rachael, then come back here in about an hour?”

“Sounds good,” Roy Bob said, and he started singing about a man and his hunting dog, Ralph. His audience seemed to like it.

An hour later, Rachael was driving out of Parlow, Jack belted in beside her, only a dull ache in his head. “We have about an hour of daylight left. That’s more than enough time to get us to Slipper Hollow and Uncle Gillette’s house.”

Jack found he appreciated the mountains more on the ground than he had with his plane on fire in the air. The road that led to Slipper Hollow was a well-maintained two-way blacktop. It rose and twisted back on itself, skirted boulders and cliffs, but continued to rise into the heart of the mountains. It was slow going because of all the sharp turns and steep falloffs.

“This is the end of the road,” Rachael said as she pulled the Charger onto the shoulder and steered carefully into a thick mess of cottonwoods. “You’d have to be looking hard to see the car in here. We’re pretty well hidden. This is why I wanted to keep the Charger dirty—better camouflage.”

Jack grunted, got out of the car, and picked up fallen branches and leaves. He covered the car as best he could. He turned to smile at Rachael. “Even if the bad guys know about Slipper Hollow, I doubt they’d find it anytime soon. We’re losing sun fast. Lead the way.”

They walked for about a hundred yards, deep into the woods, winding their way between trees, climbing, then leveling off. With no warning, they broke into a fairly flat clearing some forty feet wide, maybe sixty feet deep. In the middle stood a gem of a house, all logs and glass, two stories high, with a sharply raked roof, two chimneys, a huge wraparound porch, and four rocking chairs in a grouping around a small circular table.

“I never expected this,” Jack said.

She grinned at him. “Yeah, I know.”

What he’d expected, Rachael imagined, was some sort of shack, car parts strewn in the front, smoke billowing out of a dilapidated chimney, but not this. “It’s a work of art,” he said. “The yard and the house, framed by the thick forest, it looks like a postcard. And the flower bed. In a month or so there’ll be a rainbow of color.” He saw the two outbuildings standing off to the side. “Food storage for the winter?”

“Yes, and other supplies, as well. Uncle Gillette hates going into town. He stocks up six months at a time.”

“Is he expecting us?”

“Oh yes. I called him right before we left Parlow, told him I was coming and bringing a guest. Still, maybe it’s best to wave a white scarf. That’ll keep him from shooting us.” Then she poked Jack in the arm and laughed. “Gotcha.”

A tall man came out of the house to stand on the front porch. He waved at them as he trotted down the half-dozen wooden steps.

Rachael ran to him. Jack watched the man gather her into his arms, hold her tight, his head touching hers.

When Jack got close, the man looked up, smiled. “Welcome to Slipper Hollow. I’m Gillette Janes.”

“I’m FBI Agent Jackson Crowne. Call me Jack. I’m protecting Rachael.” Gillette didn’t let Rachael go, merely stuck out his hand. It was a competent hand, long-fingered, like a musician’s, Jack thought as he shook it, but strong and calloused, to be expected since it appeared he did everything needful in his hideaway.

Jack could only shake his head at his willingness to jump to conclusions. Truth be told, he’d been expecting a stereotypical hillbilly in a flannel shirt with a big beer gut—was he ever an idiot. “You’ve got a beautiful home,” he said instead, and meant it.

“Thank you. Rachael drilled, hammered, mowed, you name it. I’m glad you got here okay, sweetie. It’s getting dark fast. Come inside. I’ll feed you both, then you can tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve at least got a still out back?” Jack asked hopefully.

Gillette Janes laughed. “No, but I’m told my grandmother did.” SIXTEEN

Slipper Hollow

Monday night

“Why is it called Slipper Hollow?” Jack asked as he spooned up the last bite of vegetarian stew. It was loaded with every vegetable under heaven, a recipe he should get for Savich.

Gillette Janes chewed a moment on a saltine cracker. “The story goes that two young lovers met here in the deep of summer when wildflowers carpeted the ground, for even then no trees grew in this hollow. Alas, her father found them one day, shot the boy, hauled off his daughter kicking and screaming to go back to her dead lover. In her struggles, her slipper came off.

“Years later, it was said you could hear her crying for her lost slipper—not her unfortunate dead lover—thus the name attached itself to the land.”

“Any proof of that tale, Uncle Gillette?”

“Not a whiff, as far as I know,” Gillette said. “I’ve never heard her crying for her slipper, and I’ve been here nearly all my life.”

Rachael played with her crystal wineglass. “We’re safe here. No one knows about Slipper Hollow except for a few old-timers in and around Parlow. And none of them would give directions to a stranger.”

“Glad I made the decision to keep the place private,” Gillette said, rising to stack stew bowls in the dishwasher. “After you and your mom moved to Richmond, I even began doing most of my shopping in Heissen’s Dome, about an hour’s drive north of here—people know my face, maybe my name, but not where I live.

“Jack, these people after my girl, it’s doubtful they’ll find her here since she’s not been part of the area for years. So tell me, Rachael, you believe in your heart of hearts that Senator Abbott’s siblings murdered him, then have tried to murder you twice?”

Rachael said simply, “There is no one else.”

“They acted so quickly. Tell me about them.”

“Most of what I know is from Jimmy since I was only with them three times before he died. Their names are Laurel and Quincy. They’re brother and sister and they give sharks a bad name. Jimmy told me that right after his election to his first Senate term, Laurel managed to oust Quincy from the CEO position of the Abbott corporation. They’re quite diversified, but their primary interests are in commercial real estate development worldwide—malls, skyscrapers, those sorts of projects.

“The fight between Laurel and Quincy was real nasty, Jimmy told me. But the old man—his father, Carter Blaine Abbott—came down on Laurel’s side. She ran things after Carter Abbott loosened his grip on the reins five years ago.

“Fact is, I think Laurel and Quincy are equally grasping, condescending, and arrogant. I can also see the two of them joining forces to remove the bigger threat—their brother—probably right after he told them about killing Melissa Parks and that he was going to come clean, resign his Senate seat, go to the cops, the press.”

“Laurel Abbott,” Gillette repeated slowly. “Didn’t she marry some Greek shipping magnate? What’s his name^?”

“Stefanos Kostas. Now there’s a guy who’s suffering from ego inflation. He thinks he’s slick and stunning, that women can’t resist him. Jimmy said he was unfaithful even after he proposed to Laurel. The way he looks at women—me included—it made me want to go take a shower.”

“I’ve seen photos of him,” Gillette said. “He’s quite the fashion plate, looks smooth and tough, quite a combination. So you weren’t interested, huh?”

Rachael shuddered. “If a shower weren’t available, I’d go for a hose. They’ve got two boys, both off at Standover, this fancy prep school in Vermont. Stefanos owns a Greek island, Scorpios, but he spends most of his time here.”

“Tell us about Quincy,” Jack said, joining Gillette at the counter. “No, Rachael, you stay put. My head feels fine, so does my leg. I make good coffee. It’s so good some say it’s a gift.”

She laughed. “Okay, Quincy. He’s a clotheshorse, spends a couple months a year in Milan having new threads made for himself while he struts in and out of La Scala. He’s divorced, three times now, and from a snide comment Laurel made once, I gather his alimony payments could feed a small country for a week. He’s as self-centered and arrogant as Laurel, and wears a ridiculous toupee, like Donald Trump’s. One night it nearly slid onto his steak and mushrooms, and no one said a word.”

“Old man Abbott wanted Laurel to run the empire. So Quincy’s notas smart as she is?”

Rachael thought about that. “It’s not brains, really. They’re both smart, but he doesn’t have the force of will, the personality for it. He does what she tells him to do. With Quincy, I think he’d have trouble finding the jugular vein, whereas Laurel was born sucking blood from it.”

Jack said, “So Quincy can do the war dance, but he can’t take the scalp?”

“That’s it. Another thing: he’s extraordinarily sexist, and since being outsharked by his sister, Jimmy said he’d gotten more vicious toward women. I heard him say to Jimmy once that a woman is at her best on her knees with her mouth well occupied.”

“Whoa,” Jack said.

Gillette said, “Tell us more about Laurel.”

“She knows where all the skeletons are buried, knows which buttons to push. She’s the real deal when it comes to getting what she wants. She’s a closer, no scruples at all. All of that’s according to Jimmy, of course.”

Gillette said, “Doesn’t sound like there’s much affection there.”

“No, there isn’t. I asked Jimmy about that, all the sniping beneath the civility, all the public pretense, and he said it had been like that for so long he couldn’t remember if it had ever been any different.”

Gillette continued. “I read the other day in the Wall Street Journal that Abbott Enterprises, both international and domestic, has increased in wealth, prestige, and influence under her leadership.”

“So Jimmy told me,” Rachael said. “You can bet that burns Quincy to his heels.” She sighed, ate a cracker, then twisted the bag closed. “Proof. Where am I going to find proof?”

“We will,” Jack said with no hesitation at all.

She gave him a grin. “Do you know Uncle Gillette’s a computer hound, maybe even as good as Agent Savich? You told me he was amazing, Jack.”

Gillette did a double take. “Agent Savich? You mean FBI Special Agent Dillon Savich?”

Jack nodded.

“I’ve read about him, read several of the protocols he developed for the FBI. He adapted that facial recognition program from Scotland Yard. I’d really like to see it in action.”

Jack laughed. “Do you happen to have a name for your computer, Gillette?”

“A name? No, I hadn’t considered that. Hey, I’ve got three computers.”

“It’s a question to ponder,” Jack said. “Savich has only the one laptop—MAX or MAXINE—it’s transgender, changes sex every six months or so.”

Gillette laughed so hard he spilled coffee onto the floor. And what a floor it was, Jack thought, nicer than his, and that burned him since he’d selected the Italian tiles and laid them himself. He looked down at the various shades of gray with lines of milky white snaking through the marble squares.

“I wonder why I never read anything about MAX,” Gillette said, hiccupped once, then leaned down to wipe the coffee off the floor. “Or MAXINE.”

“I’ll have to see if I can get you and Savich together, at least in cyberspace. Your home is incredible. I was thinking maybe it’s about the right time to do some more work on mine.”

“You already own a house? At your tender age?”

“I’m not all that young,” Jack said, “nearly thirty-two.”

“That’s thirty-one,” Gillette said. “That’s young.”

“Young enough,” Rachael said as she blew on the coffee that Uncle Gillette had just poured in the big stone mug with her name on it. “You’ve only got thirty-six months on me.”

“Thirty-six months and lots of years,” Jack said.

Rachael sneered at him. “Oh yeah? You ever spend any quality time at the bottom of a lake with only a block of concrete for company?”

“Okay, I spoke too fast, but you’ve got to admit, that little phrase sounded profound.”

She couldn’t help it, she poked him in the arm and laughed. “All right, you’re loaded with hard-nosed experience. Now, tell us about your house.”

“It’s old and needs lots of updating, but it’s mine. I’m still living in my apartment since there’s so much major work to do. My folks loaned me the down payment. I pay them ten percent interest. My dad told me to take my time paying them back, they like the interest rate too much. You built this house yourself, Gillette?”

Gillette nodded and walked to the shining silver Sub-Zero refrigerator. “After I came home from the marines—”

“Wait a minute,” Jack said, staring at the man who looked like he should have been playing polo, his valet waiting in the wings. “You’re a marine?”

Gillette nodded. “Yeah, I spent ten years in the Corps before I hung it up. I grew up here in Slipper Hollow, went to school in Parlow, couldn’t wait to go out into the big bad world. Since home appears to be embedded in our genes, I came back here when I got out. Rachael and her mom lived here until she was twelve or so, I believe, when they moved to Richmond.”

Rachael added to Jack, “My grandparents were killed in an avalanche while cross-country skiing when I was about eight. I never knew them very well, they were always bumming around. ‘Hike the world’ was their motto.”

“Yes, that’s right. After you and your mom left, it was tough being here alone, but I didn’t want to leave. That’s when I tore down the house and started building this one. It was a work in progress for a long time. Been finished about three years now. I’ve enjoyed every project, Jack, and you will, too, so take your time and don’t cut corners. I made a cheesecake. Who wants strawberries with that?”

This handsome, fit man who looked like an Italian count in his pale blue cashmere V-neck, white shirt, black slacks, and butter-soft loafers, was a down-and-dirty marine? He made vegetarian stew and cheesecake and laid that incredible kitchen floor; he built this entire frigging house?

After his first bite of cheesecake, Jack said, “I have a sister who’d hunt you down like a dog, so great would be her desire for you.”

“Hmm. She likes cheesecake, does she? Is she a lawyer like you?”

“How do you know I’m a lawyer?”

“The way you process information, the way you speak. It helped, too, that after Rachael called me, told me your name, I Googled you. You were second in your class at the University of Chicago. Good job. That’s a tough program. You went directly into the FBI after graduation?”

Jack sat back, folded his hand over his belly. “No, I started out in the Chicago DA’s office, stayed only a year and a half before joining the FBI. My sister was first in her class, also at Chicago, eight years before me. Plus, she’s a vegetarian. So is Savich.”

“Funny,” Gillette said, frowning at a laptop that sat next to a bowl of green apples on the long kitchen counter, “for an FBI agent.”

“Yeah, I’d have to say that most of us are predators.” Jack thought about Gillette Googling him, about the state of privacy now, and knew anyone could find out he’d made a B in Torts in his second year.

At ten o’clock that night, Rachael led Jack into her mother’s old room, which, naturally, Uncle Gillette had prepared for him.

“I was wondering, Rachael, how does Gillette make his money? It’s obvious he isn’t hurting, plus he built this house and it’s really high quality.”

“He does computer troubleshooting for several large international corporations. Exactly what this involves, you’ll have to ask him. I remember once he started talking about a tax scam he was hunting down in Dubai, and my eyes started glazing over. Go take a pain med, Jack,” she added. She raised her hand to lightly cup his face. “Thank you. You fall out of the sky at my feet, then you become my bodyguard. Add to that you’re fixing up your own house and I’ve gotta think you’re quite a miracle.”

“I like being a miracle,” he said, and stared at that sexy braid before he left her. Jack took his pill and settled between lavender-scented sheets, unconscious in two minutes flat.

As for Rachael, for the first time since Friday, she felt safe to her bones even though she knew intellectually that anyone with the proper motivation and a certain degree of skill could locate her and Slipper Hollow without much fuss.

She lay on her back on her narrow childhood bed and looked up at the high-beamed ceiling that she couldn’t see in the dark, and wondered how she was going to prove Jimmy’s brother and sister murdered him before they added her scalp to their belts.

She wanted more than anything in the world to make them pay. She’d had only six weeks with Jimmy because of them. Talk about miracles, Jimmy had been the biggest miracle in her life, and he was taken from her. After so little time. She fell asleep thinking that Jack was a pretty nice miracle himself.