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18
SHERLOCK
Washington Memorial Hospital
THURSDAY, LATE MORNING
When Sherlock opened her eyes, she didn’t know where she was. She was lying flat on her back, but where? And where was Emma? Was she all right? She felt a spurt of panic, started to jerk up, but hands were holding her down. She blinked and stared up at Dillon. He leaned close. “No, hold still, sweetheart. You’re in Washington Memorial, in a cubicle, lying on a gurney. You’re okay, I promise. The doctor will agree with me, you’ll see.” He cupped her cheek with his warm hand. “I’m so happy to see your beautiful blue eyes looking up at me.”
Her brain began to knit itself together. She’d seen the man raising a flute, no, not a flute—a tube—and she whispered, “I was too slow, Dillon. He shot me with a blowgun in the neck, didn’t he? Oh no, is Emma all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine. Don’t worry. He didn’t try for her, he ducked out after you went down.”
“But how can you be here? You, Griffin, and Pepper were going to Porte Franklyn.”
“Jeter will have things covered.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Nearly an hour.” During which time he’d held her hand and promised a world of good deeds if only she’d wake up and smile at him.
Once she felt more clearheaded, Sherlock looked around the small curtained-off cubicle. “I hate hospitals, Dillon, all the nasty smells and needles coming at you, looking for the slightest excuse to jab you. At least you’re here with me, not some guy with a scalpel standing over me. When can we leave?”
“The doctor should be back soon. They don’t even know you’re awake yet. Be patient a while longer.”
Sherlock closed her eyes a moment, said slowly, “The dart was obviously meant for Emma’s neck. He didn’t expect me to be there at the back of the hall. He didn’t think anyone would be there with her except her family. I must have caught him when he’d just arrived, looking to see where he might find Emma unprotected. Maybe his plan was to catch her in the wings, maybe backstage in a dressing room. If he managed to put her down, how would he have gotten her out of Kennedy Center?”
“He had a plan, but what it was I haven’t figured out yet.”
“I just don’t understand this. He can’t be a child molester, Emma’s too old. Could he be an obsessed fan? No, I can’t buy that. We’ve got to find out what’s going on here. At least now he knows Emma’s being protected so maybe he’ll take himself back to San Francisco.”
He helped her sit up on the gurney, leaned down, and kissed her pale mouth. “Can you describe him to me?”
Her head was clear now. She saw the man looking around the edge of the door, his eyes on the stage, on Emma. “I’d say he was in his thirties. He was wearing a heavy coat, dark, probably black, a ball cap without a logo on it, and opaque sunglasses. I couldn’t see his hair below the cap, so maybe he didn’t have any, or shaved his head, or tucked it all under the ball cap. It isn’t much, Dillon, but it sounds like the same guy who stalked her at Davies Hall in San Francisco. He was fast with the blowgun, and he was good.” She sighed. “Who knows if it was even the same guy?”
“You stopped this one in any case. Well done.”
“He was left-handed.”
“What?”
“He held the dart tube in his left hand. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll help.” She felt a wave of dizziness and leaned back against his arm.
A man in a white coat walked into the cubicle some minutes later. Sherlock thought he looked young enough to still go to the junior prom. He smiled, pleased Sherlock was awake and sitting up. He introduced himself as Dr. Zugoni, gently probed her neck where the dart had punctured her skin, and asked her questions to be sure she was fully alert. He did a quick neurologic exam, whistling as he did so, a catchy tune Savich didn’t recognize. Was it to keep himself awake?
Sherlock said, “Do you know what he shot me with?”
“Your tox screen is pending, but those darts usually have ketamine in them, a drug that’s used for general anesthesia and in dart guns as an animal tranquilizer. Now that you’re awake, Agent Sherlock, you can expect to be a bit unsteady on your feet for a while, but there shouldn’t be any lasting effects.”
Sherlock said, “We need to leave, Dr. Zugoni, find the man who did this and keep him from hurting anyone else. Please discharge me now, so I don’t have to leave against medical advice.”
He nodded, smiled. “None of us would want that, Agent Sherlock. Love your name. Your exam is normal. I’d prefer to keep you a few more hours, but the truth is you should be safe enough so long as you have the big guy around to catch you if you stumble. So if you promise not to sue me, I’ll write your discharge order and we can all stay friends.” He paused a moment, frowned at the tiny puncture mark in her neck. “You FBI agents sure lead interesting lives.” He gave Sherlock a singularly sweet smile and a wave over his shoulder as he left the cubicle, his white coat flapping.
Thirty minutes later Savich helped Sherlock into the Porsche, fastened her seat belt, and looked into her eyes, now perfectly clear. “Welcome back,” he said, and kissed her. He wasn’t going to tell her he’d been so scared he’d nearly wrecked the Porsche getting to the Kennedy Center.
He slid into the driver’s side, pressed the start button, and the Porsche roared to life. As he turned out of the hospital parking lot into traffic, Sherlock said, “Please tell me Emma doesn’t know.”
“Sorry, but yes, she knows. The Italian boy she’s sharing the spotlight with—Vincenzo Rossi—told her when she finished the Chopin concerto with the orchestra. It’s thanks to Ramsey I got here so quickly. He told me he turned around every couple of minutes to check the doors into the concert hall, couldn’t help himself, even though he knew you were there. He saw the man, saw you go down. He kept it together, excused himself. He made sure you were breathing normally and called 911, then me. I asked him to keep everything as quiet as he could including the EMTs’ arrival and departure with you on a gurney.”
