Power Play
Page 91
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The iodine hurt, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Perry, her sarcasm so heavy Davis was surprised it didn’t flatten the paramedic, said, “Sorry we couldn’t oblige you.”
The woman waved her hand, impervious. “I prefer it this way, darling,” she said, and continued to examine the thin slice on Davis’s cheek.
“Would you like me to get you a Band-Aid?”
The paramedic grinned over at her. “Nah, we came loaded for bear, so we can handle this little cub here, no problem. Hey, Curry, want to bring over that dressing kit for our FBI agent here?”
“Look at my living room, Davis. My notebook—it’s wrecked. The insurance company isn’t going to be happy.”
Savich’s house
Sunday night
Sherlock snuggled in, pressed her cheek to his neck. Her curly hair tickled his nose, a familiar feeling, both comforting and unsettling, and he breathed in the faint rose scent that always stirred him up. He hugged her close. “We need to sleep.” He kissed the top of her head.
“I know, and believe me, I’m so tired I’m ready to fall over, but I’m wired, can’t seem to shut off my brain, much less slow it down. First Blessed last night, and tonight someone fires on Davis and Perry. I hate guns. Well, and motorcycles, too.”
“Ben Raven has the neighborhood locked down, Sherlock. Blessed won’t come back here again, not tonight. He’s probably afraid of you now, after being in that grocery storage room with you and all the flying cans and shelves that weighed a ton when they toppled over.”
He felt her mouth curve up. “Now, that was something. Too bad Blessed didn’t get pinned under one of those shelves. I can’t believe he was dolled up as a little old lady. I wonder where he got the clothes. Off a clothesline, I hope, and not off someone he killed. He’s a nightmare, Dillon.”
“The operative description here, sweetheart, is failed nightmare. We’re still here and Blessed won’t be.”
“But I don’t know how I’m going to get to sleep, Dillon. Too many crazy people tromping through my brain.”
“What if I tell you a story about me you haven’t heard yet? That’s right, rest your head on my chest and close your eyes and I’ll get you to sleep in no time. That includes your hand. Your hand can’t be strolling downward. Really. You’ve got to help me out here.”
“Maybe my fingers can find us a better way to relax. You think?”
He had to admit it, she had a point.
• • •
A half-hour later, Savich pulled the covers over them, kissed her forehead, squeezed her tight. “Ready to sleep now?”
She heard the lazy satisfaction in his voice, and lightly punched her fist in his belly. “Not yet. I want to hear that bedtime story you were going to tell me.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you,” he said, and pulled her against him. “When I was fifteen years old, my junior high school football coach, Mr. Jeffries, was in a bad car accident. A drunk driver, we heard, ran him into a bridge abutment. He went right over it, twenty feet down into the Beaver River, and you know what? He managed to get out of the car and swim to the surface. A passerby saw the whole thing and called nine-one-one. The doctors said it was a miracle he survived the fall, even more of a miracle he was able to climb out of the car with all his internal injuries and broken bones. And the biggest miracle, it looked like he might pull through. My dad went with me to visit him in the hospital. I’ll tell you, to see my coach, a man about my own age now and strong as a bull, always in charge, all broken and bandaged, even his head—he looked nearly dead to me. They had sedated him and put him on a respirator. Only his eyes were open.
“His wife, Mrs. Jeffries, was standing on the opposite side of the bed when we walked up and looked down at him. I wanted to run, but I was with my dad, so I didn’t. She suggested we leave, that he needed to sleep, but he saw me, recognized me. I don’t know why, but I took his hand, and I waited. He looked over at his wife, then he looked at me, right into my eyes. His fingers tightened in my hand. And I knew what he was trying to communicate, as if he were speaking to me, clear as day. Of course, he wasn’t speaking, wasn’t even moving his mouth, since that hissing regulator in his mouth was breathing for him.”
“What was he saying, I mean, what was he thinking to you?”
“That he was afraid of his wife, that she’d hired someone to run him off the bridge. He’d heard her on her cell phone when she believed he was still unconscious, talking to someone, telling him she was real mad because she’d wasted five thousand dollars.
Perry, her sarcasm so heavy Davis was surprised it didn’t flatten the paramedic, said, “Sorry we couldn’t oblige you.”
The woman waved her hand, impervious. “I prefer it this way, darling,” she said, and continued to examine the thin slice on Davis’s cheek.
“Would you like me to get you a Band-Aid?”
The paramedic grinned over at her. “Nah, we came loaded for bear, so we can handle this little cub here, no problem. Hey, Curry, want to bring over that dressing kit for our FBI agent here?”
“Look at my living room, Davis. My notebook—it’s wrecked. The insurance company isn’t going to be happy.”
Savich’s house
Sunday night
Sherlock snuggled in, pressed her cheek to his neck. Her curly hair tickled his nose, a familiar feeling, both comforting and unsettling, and he breathed in the faint rose scent that always stirred him up. He hugged her close. “We need to sleep.” He kissed the top of her head.
“I know, and believe me, I’m so tired I’m ready to fall over, but I’m wired, can’t seem to shut off my brain, much less slow it down. First Blessed last night, and tonight someone fires on Davis and Perry. I hate guns. Well, and motorcycles, too.”
“Ben Raven has the neighborhood locked down, Sherlock. Blessed won’t come back here again, not tonight. He’s probably afraid of you now, after being in that grocery storage room with you and all the flying cans and shelves that weighed a ton when they toppled over.”
He felt her mouth curve up. “Now, that was something. Too bad Blessed didn’t get pinned under one of those shelves. I can’t believe he was dolled up as a little old lady. I wonder where he got the clothes. Off a clothesline, I hope, and not off someone he killed. He’s a nightmare, Dillon.”
“The operative description here, sweetheart, is failed nightmare. We’re still here and Blessed won’t be.”
“But I don’t know how I’m going to get to sleep, Dillon. Too many crazy people tromping through my brain.”
“What if I tell you a story about me you haven’t heard yet? That’s right, rest your head on my chest and close your eyes and I’ll get you to sleep in no time. That includes your hand. Your hand can’t be strolling downward. Really. You’ve got to help me out here.”
“Maybe my fingers can find us a better way to relax. You think?”
He had to admit it, she had a point.
• • •
A half-hour later, Savich pulled the covers over them, kissed her forehead, squeezed her tight. “Ready to sleep now?”
She heard the lazy satisfaction in his voice, and lightly punched her fist in his belly. “Not yet. I want to hear that bedtime story you were going to tell me.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you,” he said, and pulled her against him. “When I was fifteen years old, my junior high school football coach, Mr. Jeffries, was in a bad car accident. A drunk driver, we heard, ran him into a bridge abutment. He went right over it, twenty feet down into the Beaver River, and you know what? He managed to get out of the car and swim to the surface. A passerby saw the whole thing and called nine-one-one. The doctors said it was a miracle he survived the fall, even more of a miracle he was able to climb out of the car with all his internal injuries and broken bones. And the biggest miracle, it looked like he might pull through. My dad went with me to visit him in the hospital. I’ll tell you, to see my coach, a man about my own age now and strong as a bull, always in charge, all broken and bandaged, even his head—he looked nearly dead to me. They had sedated him and put him on a respirator. Only his eyes were open.
“His wife, Mrs. Jeffries, was standing on the opposite side of the bed when we walked up and looked down at him. I wanted to run, but I was with my dad, so I didn’t. She suggested we leave, that he needed to sleep, but he saw me, recognized me. I don’t know why, but I took his hand, and I waited. He looked over at his wife, then he looked at me, right into my eyes. His fingers tightened in my hand. And I knew what he was trying to communicate, as if he were speaking to me, clear as day. Of course, he wasn’t speaking, wasn’t even moving his mouth, since that hissing regulator in his mouth was breathing for him.”
“What was he saying, I mean, what was he thinking to you?”
“That he was afraid of his wife, that she’d hired someone to run him off the bridge. He’d heard her on her cell phone when she believed he was still unconscious, talking to someone, telling him she was real mad because she’d wasted five thousand dollars.
