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Malcolm wasn’t deaf to the fear in Agent Savich’s voice. “Yes, Agent, I did. She’s sleeping, not unconscious. There’s a big bandage around her head, so it looks worse than it is. One of the nurses said all her curly hair would cover the stitches over her temple. Is her name really Sherlock? As in the Baskerville Sherlock?”
“Yes, and surprise, she loves dogs.”
Malcolm left him in front of a curtained cubicle in the ICU with a small salute. Savich pulled back the curtain to see a nurse fussing over Sherlock, taking her blood pressure, her pulse. She straightened, nodded to him. “You’re her husband, Agent Savich, right?”
He nodded. “How is she?”
“Her vitals continue to be in the normal range. I’m hoping she’ll sleep most of the night, even with the frequent checks. If anything worries you tonight, give us a holler.” She shook his hand, nodded to the stingy narrow cot snugged into the small space. “Good luck with that. I’ll see you again soon.”
Savich stood over Sherlock, simply listening to her slow, even breathing. They’d cleaned the blood off her face and put her in a light blue hospital gown. The bandage around her head was in layers, like a turban. He remembered when she’d been hurt in San Francisco before last Christmas, her head had been covered with layers of white bandages then, too. The leaching fear flooded back, drowning him. He touched his fingertips to her hair, still stiff with dried blood. He looked at the bruises on the top of her shoulder from the seat belt, bruises he knew looked worse than they were. An IV line snaked into her wrist from a bag of liquid, probably saline to keep her hydrated. Nothing they could give her for the concussion. She was pale and still, a lifeless model of herself. It scared him to death. She was always on the move, always ready to take on anything thrown at her. She was vital, a dynamo.
Savich leaned down, lightly kissed her mouth. He stood by her bed for a very long time.
