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29
ON THE ROAD TO GAFFER'S RIDGE
THURSDAY MORNING
As Savich turned onto Route 60 out of Richmond and headed due west toward the George Washington and Jefferson National Forests and the Appalachians, he said to Sherlock, “Only about an hour and a half before we’re in Gaffer’s Ridge. It sits in a long sleeve of land between two mountain ridges, maybe fifteen minutes south of Lexington, Virginia. Not to be confused with Lexington, Kentucky.” Slight pause, then, “How do you feel? Any head pain?”
“No, I’m fine, don’t worry. I took two aspirin, so I’m good to go. Sean isn’t worried, is he, that his mom’s really sick?”
“No, he vaguely understands it’s more a pain in the butt than any serious disease. And believe me, he’s a happy camper now he’ll get to spend several days at his grandmother’s house. Talk about a huge treat. She’s the chocolate chip cookie queen. He’ll be fine, Sherlock, don’t worry, okay? A couple of days in Gaffer’s Ridge, and we’ll head back.”
Sherlock looked at the man who’d been her husband for six years. He’d brought her clothes to the hospital and she’d changed in the bathroom, not in front of him. She’d looked at herself in the mirror and seen what he’d told her was her usual uniform—white blouse, black pants and boots, a black leather jacket it was too hot to wear, and her credentials. He’d even handed her her service Glock and her small Glock 380, along with an ankle holster, saying, “I took both your Glocks home, no sense freaking out the nurses. They’re yours. You always wear the little 380,” and she’d strapped it on her ankle. It had felt completely natural. Her hair was clean, pulled back in a clip at the base of her neck, curling tendrils already corkscrewing around her face. She touched on lipstick, rubbed in a bit on her cheeks because she was too pale, and stared at herself. Whoever you are, you’ve got a seriously good-looking husband. Not only is he hot, he seems nice and very concerned about you. Are you nice? Are you smart? Are you a good agent? I heard one agent say he hoped I could still read a crime scene, whatever that meant. But she knew, deep down, she knew. But she didn’t know the woman in the mirror. She said now, “Dillon, riding in the Porsche—it feels familiar.”
He felt a leap of hope, shot her a sideways look. She was tilting her head to the side, it was a familiar gesture, too.
“Excellent. That’s the second time you’ve remembered my Porsche.” He paused a moment. “Remember that video I showed you? You were wearing shorts and a cut-off top, flip-flops, and said you had made lemonade for Sean, Marty, and me? I dreamed about you in that video last night. Marty wasn’t there this time, but she was probably close by. You remember, she’s Sean’s future Number One Wife?”
“I remember, that is, yes, you told me about Marty, showed me a photo of her and her family. The video—I wish I could remember.” She shook herself. “You said we’ve known them forever?”
“That’s right.” He turned on his blinker, passed an eighteen-wheeler. The driver honked, whistled at the Porsche, and gave Savich a thumbs-up.
Savich returned the wave, eyed Sherlock, and plowed ahead. “Before I could drink your lemonade, Griffin called, interrupted my dream. I sure wanted that lemonade, but he was insisting.”
She cocked her head at him again, graceful, inquisitive, a look that held a wealth of meaning to him, though she didn’t know it. He said, “Griffin wanted to talk to me again.”
“How do you know? I didn’t hear your cell phone.”
Was it time to tell her? Would it make this even harder for her, or help her remember? “Sherlock, sometimes I know when people want to talk with me. Particularly Griffin. That’s one of the reasons I wanted him to transfer from the San Francisco Field Office to Washington, to the CAU.”
“What are you saying? That you and Agent Griffin Hammersmith are psychic?”
He shot her a quick look. She didn’t appear horrified or alarmed and she wasn’t laughing. She looked fascinated, like she wanted to pull the words out of his mouth.
He said, “Well, yes, you could say that. It doesn’t happen often, and as I said, I appear to have a strong connection to Griffin, but he’s not the only one. I don’t suppose you remember the Alcott family? Griffin and I dealt with them while you were keeping watch on the JFK terrorist?”
Terrorist? She saw a flash of a man in a security line holding a grenade—and then he was gone, behind the white door, as she was starting to think of it. “I think I just saw him, I mean I saw the terrorist. What was his name?”
“Nasim Conklin. Maybe in bed tonight, I’ll tell you about him. That’s why people recognize you, and they do—you were on TV. You’re the heroine of JFK.”
She could only stare at him, then she grinned. “A pity I didn’t save the president.”
He reached over and grabbed her hand, felt her still, and released her. It didn’t matter. He grinned at her. “While you were worrying about terrorists, I was meeting the Alcotts. One of them had some scary abilities of her own, well, not more than Autumn Backman, but different.”
The solid white door opened again and Sherlock saw a pale little girl lying motionless on a hospital bed. She drew in her breath. “I saw her for a moment. Did she die?”
“No, she woke up, her gift thankfully intact.”
“Her gift? What could she do?”
“She helped me take down some very bad people.” There was much more, of course, but he stopped. Sherlock had enough on her plate, he didn’t want her wondering if she should call the people with the straitjackets.
She said, “I’m glad she didn’t die. Why don’t you call me Lacey? That’s what my first name is.”
“You’ve always preferred Sherlock, like your father—the federal judge in San Francisco. He says it scares the criminals.”
She nodded. “Yes, you told me. It’s a cool name.” She’d spoken to her parents, reassured them she was fine, deciding not to mention she wouldn’t know them if she passed them on the street.
“Don’t you like Sherlock any longer?”
