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Four blocks away, Savich was walking to his Porsche after a hard workout, his muscles pumped and warm, and feeling pleased with himself. He was whistling, tossing the key fob into the air, catching it. He felt good, but he always felt good after working to his limits. He looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. Sherlock would be arriving soon, he had to get home to get the lasagna together. He climbed into the Porsche, pressed the starter. He knew she’d bring the extra mozzarella cheese for the lasagna that was defrosting, and maybe some ice cream for the cherry pie she’d made the previous evening, one of Sean’s favorites. He thought of Sean’s birthday list and laughed. His boy, who’d just learned how to ride a bike without training wheels two months ago, had said what he really wanted was a Schwinn three-speed. Yeah, like that would happen. Fortunately, he also wanted Steph Curry sneakers. Did somebody make Steph Curry sneakers for little kids? Probably so.
He was buckling his seat belt when his cell belted out Gilbert Hillman’s “Shining on the Moon.”
“Savich here.”
“Agent Savich, this is Officer Ted Malone. There was a car accident. Your wife, Agent Sherlock, is in an ambulance on the way to Washington Memorial. I’m sorry, but I don’t know her status.” A slight pause. “It looked bad, sir. You need to hurry.”
His world shrank instantly to a single black point. He roared out of the gym parking lot, wove between startled drivers on Wisconsin, and quickly picked up two police cars, sirens blaring. Finally, a vicious left brought him to the hospital’s emergency room entrance. He slammed on the brakes and jumped out of his Porsche in front of the ER, his shield held high as officers jumped out of their patrol cars, their guns drawn, yelling at him.
“FBI,” he yelled, “car accident, my wife.” He threw the nearest officer his keys. “Please move my car.” Before they answered him he was through the doors.
The place was a madhouse, but that was no surprise, it usually was. Savich threaded his way through the crowd of humanity to the counter.
“My wife, Agent Sherlock, was brought in—a car accident. What can you tell me? I’m—”
Savich wasn’t aware he was sheet white, his hands shaking, but Nurse Nancy Baker was. She said, her voice matter-of-fact, “I know who you are, Agent Savich. I’ll take you to her. Come.”
“Is she hurt badly?”
Nancy paused, laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Agent Savich, I don’t know the particulars, but the doctor’s with her. She’ll tell you.” She wasn’t about to tell him his wife had been unconscious on a stretcher, her beautiful curly red hair soaked with blood, more blood streaking in rivulets down her face. She’d recognized Agent Sherlock immediately, she’d been in a number of times, not as a patient but as an FBI agent, usually with her husband. More than that, she was well known, the heroine who’d saved countless lives at the hands of a terrorist at JFK several months before.
Savich followed her, weaving through men, women, and several children, some upright, some in wheelchairs, some being comforted by relatives. They walked through swinging doors into a large space with curtained-off cubicles on each side, surrounding a central nursing station. Here it was a controlled chaos, the doctors, nurses, and techs moving fast, their faces intent and focused.
From behind the curtains, Savich heard moans, a cry, and low voices speaking urgently or trying to soothe, one voice nearing hysteria, another calm and deep, reassuring. A doctor.
The nurse pulled back the nearest curtain and stepped aside.
Two nurses and two doctors were bending over Sherlock. The female doctor looked up, frowning. “Who are you?”
Savich immediately held up his FBI creds. They always gave him instant access. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich. She’s Agent Sherlock. I’m her husband. Talk to me. What’s her status?”
The woman straightened, walked to him, lightly laid her hand on his arm just as the nurse had. “I’m Dr. Loomis. That’s Dr. Luther.” She nodded toward a young man who was bending over Sherlock, lightly palpating her belly. “He told me about who she is and that you’d be coming. We have some urgent tests to do now, but I can tell you she’s got a gash over her temple that will need stitches, multiple contusions on her arms and chest. Nothing appears broken, but we’ll need X-rays to be sure. There are no signs of internal bleeding, but again, we need tests to confirm.
“She was unconscious when she got to us, but she’s awake now, though still confused. She smiled up at me and said her head felt like it was kettledrumming. That’s a good sign, as you doubtless know. We’re about to take her for a CT brain scan and they’ll scan her chest, abdomen, and pelvis as well, our protocol for trauma of this sort. I’ll know more soon. Perhaps you’d like to go to the surgical waiting room on the second floor? It’s more private, less intense than the ER waiting room. I’ll come see you there. Agent Savich?” She squeezed his arm. “Are you with me?”
Dr. Loomis knew he was scared senseless and would stay scared until she was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles his wife would recover. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough. She would be scared to death, too, if it were her husband or her daughter lying there.
“I want to see her, a moment only. I—I need to see her.”
Dr. Loomis stepped aside. “Only a moment, they’re ready for her in CT.”
Sherlock’s eyes were closed. She lay perfectly still on a steel-framed gurney, most of her clothes cut off, the two nurses and the doctor surrounding her. So many bruises, cuts, and abrasions, as if she’d been thrown every which way. One of the nurses was speaking low to her, holding her hand as she pressed a strip of gauze over the cut on her temple. He swallowed when he saw all the blood—her hair was soaked with blood, it was black with blood.
The other nurse moved aside at a nod from the doctor and Savich stepped in to lean over her. He lightly kissed her cheek, tasted her blood. He wanted to weep. “Sherlock? Sweetheart? Can you hear me?”
She opened her eyes and stared up at him, her eyes vague, not quite focused on his face. “Are you here to tell me you’ve got to cut me open now?”
“No cutting for you. You’re awake and that’s good. They’re going to take excellent care of you. You were in an accident, but you’ll be all right.”
“An accident,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“I don’t know yet, but your Volvo saved your life. Doesn’t matter, your next car’s going to be a Sherman tank.”
“We really need to take her now, Agent Savich, it’s important,” Dr. Loomis said from behind him.
He leaned down, kissed her again, and straightened. She was simply staring up at him, her mouth opening. He lightly laid his finger over her lips. “No, don’t talk. You can tell me everything later. I swear, you’ll be all right.”
