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“Yes, I do. It’s different. I was only wondering.” Act normal, no choice, but nothing was normal. She watched him punch a number into his cell phone, put it on speaker: “Griffin. Talk to me. You’re on speaker.”
They both listened as Griffin filled them in on what he’d been doing. In an emotionless voice, Savich assured him Sherlock was all right and they’d be in Gaffer’s Ridge in an hour.
Savich punched off, and said now, his voice matter-of-fact, “We’re going to need your excellent eye, your assessment of the people we meet in Gaffer’s Ridge. We’re going to need you with us as a federal agent, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.” She looked at his profile: straight nose, high cheekbones, square jaw, and swarthy complexion, his hands on the steering wheel. He wore a wedding band that matched hers, and, of all things, a Mickey Mouse watch strapped around his wrist. He had big strong hands. She cleared her throat. “You said you’d tell me all about the JFK incident—tonight in bed. What did you mean exactly?”
Ah, there it was, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the car, wedged between them. He gave her a quick look. “Give me your hand, Sherlock.”
She didn’t want to, he knew it, but he was patient. His right hand remained open, waiting. Finally, he felt her cool palm against his, felt her fingers lightly touch his. He squeezed. “We’re married, I know your body as well as I know my own. I also realize I’m a stranger to you, and you can’t imagine climbing into bed with me. I want you to know I have no intention of stripping in front of you, no intention of jumping you. But we will sleep together, Sherlock. I don’t snore, usually, and neither do you. You usually sleep with your head on my shoulder, or we spoon. I like both. You do, too. But that’s up to you.” He turned to see her staring at him, her face pale, a bit of alarm in her eyes.
“Okay,” she said, but her voice was barely above a whisper, not because she was at all afraid of him, but because her head was aching something fierce, and the highway was weaving back and forth in wide, dizzying loops. She felt drunk and nauseous, closed her eyes, swallowed. She didn’t want to throw up, she wouldn’t. She heard him speaking again, but his words didn’t make sense, they were jumbled, moving and changing, like the road. “Stop the car!”
He pulled over onto the shoulder.
She opened the door and threw up. She’d eaten so little there wasn’t much, mostly dry heaves. She felt his hands rubbing lightly up and down her back, holding her shaking shoulders. At last she whispered, “I’m okay now.”
Savich handed her a bottle of water, watched her drink, then spit it out. She handed him back the water bottle.
“Thank you. I think it was all the curves in the highway, made me nauseous. I’m all right now, but I think I could nap.”
He handed her a Kleenex, then worried. Should he turn around and take her back to the hospital? Should he have brought her in the first place? “Do you still feel nauseated? We can stop at the hospital in Lexington, let them take a look at you.”
She didn’t open her eyes, but reached out her hand. Instead of touching his hand, her palm landed on his thigh. She jerked her hand away. He said nothing, only took her hand in his and gently squeezed. After a moment, her hand lay quiescent in his. Finally, she said, “No more hospitals, Dillon, I’ll be fine. It was the oddest thing. When you were speaking, it seemed all the words were mixing themselves up. It was like I was dyslexic, even though I was listening, not reading, and I couldn’t understand you. Really, I’m okay now. Don’t worry. It’s the concussion, it’s messing me up a little bit, but you know there’s nothing to be done. Time and rest. And maybe some distraction, but only after I wake up.” She tried to smile at him.
“All right, take a nap, Sherlock. I’ll wake you when we get to Gaffer’s Ridge.” He watched her lean her head against the door, close her eyes. He knew a hospital wasn’t the answer, that keeping her with him was best. No way could he have left her with strangers. What was going on in Gaffer’s Ridge would engage her, and he’d make sure she got her rest. He’d tell her stories about cases they’d had, people they knew. He eased the Porsche back onto the highway and prayed. He heard her breathing slow as she fell asleep. He wished he had a pillow or a cover for her, but he didn’t, hadn’t thought of it. He kept driving, slowly, heading toward the west and into the distant mountains.
