Lucy whistled. “Great throw, Sean. You had Coop on his heels.”
“Looks like another champion Frisbee player,” Sherlock said, and promptly dropped the Frisbee Coop sailed to her.
“Mama, you dropped it! We’ve got to start over!”
Sherlock apologized, promised to pay attention, and sent the Frisbee toward Lucy. They got into a nice steady rhythm until it was Sean’s turn to miss one. He picked up the Frisbee, hugged it to his chest, and did a little dance. “I dropped it, but it doesn’t matter. We broke the record. Twenty-one catches without dropping it. I counted real careful, Mama. Marty won’t believe it. You’ll tell her it was twenty-one times, won’t you?”
“Yep, I swear.”
Marty Perry wouldn’t be happy, she thought, ruffling her son’s dark hair and smiling into his glowing face.
At least the weatherman hadn’t lied—it was a lovely morning, bright sunshine, the temperature hugging sixty. Another dozen Frisbee throws and all of them would be tossing off their jackets. The small meadow in the park was empty except for the five of them. Soon, though, Sherlock knew, more families would show up, excited kids in tow, and the Frisbee circle would steadily grow larger as Sean, always ready to make new friends, invited kids and parents to join until it was a zoo. The adults would then diplomatically excuse themselves so it was a kids-only Frisbee fest.
But for now, Sean wanted to throw the Frisbee farther and farther—okay if they missed now, since they’d broken the record—until Savich saw Sean was panting, his face red. “Let’s take a break,” he called out, flipped the Frisbee to Sherlock, and headed for the cooler set against a huge old oak tree. He grinned, hearing Sean announce to Coop and Lucy that Daddy was tired.
He’d just turned, smiling, with bottles of lemonade in his hands, when there was a loud cracking sound.
Savich flew backward, blood spurting out of his chest.
CHAPTER 59
Lucy saw Savich hurled back, the bottles of lemonade flying out of his hands.
Everything stopped.
After an instant, she saw Savich standing near the cooler again, and she ran all out, knew she had to get to him before eight seconds ticked away. If felt as if she was running in a dream, her legs moving molasses-slow, as if she was stroking against the tide, as if time itself was pushing against her, and she fought desperately to outrace the passing seconds. She knew if she didn’t reach Savich, he would die again. White noise filled her head, and every fiber of her strained to get to him before that eighth second clicked past, and the present would be past again, and Kirsten would shoot him in the heart. She wanted to scream at him to move, but she knew he couldn’t hear her. So far away he stood, not knowing that within a second, he was going to be dead.
Now Savich was rising from the cooler again, the bottles of lemonade in his hands, turning toward them, smiling. Lucy screamed at him, and he looked at her, startled, just as she smashed into him, sending both of them flying backward to the ground. Not an instant later, a gunshot rang out over their heads.
There were shouts and more gunshots, fast and close. Savich flipped her under him, covering her as best he could. All Lucy could think was
“Stay down, Lucy!”
But she rolled over onto her stomach, unclipped her own SIG, and fired. She heard the others firing as well, all of them in the direction of the trees at the far end of the park.
Would Kirsten try to kill Sean? No, Sherlock was protecting him, not firing back, covering Sean, keeping him safe.
As suddenly as it began, it was over. Lucy heard no movement, no noise, not even from the birds, only her own heavy breathing. Then Savich was shaking her, his voice fast and impatient. “Keep behind that oak, Lucy. Thank God, Sherlock’s got Sean; they’re okay. I’m going to circle around after her.”
She heard Coop speaking to the 911 operator as he crouched down behind a park trash bin. She saw Sherlock with Sean in her arms, rocking him as she looked out toward them from behind a tree.
She heard faint shouts from people walking toward the park, wondering what had happened, but they really didn’t touch her. She was lost in a daze of numb shock mixed with such boundless relief she wanted to weep.
She looked up to see Savich trotting back to her, his SIG back in its belt clip, speaking into his cell. She ran to him, said over and over, “You’re all right. Thank God, you’re all right.” She rubbed her hands over his chest, unaware that Savich was standing still as a statue in front of her, staring silently down at her. Finally, he pulled her hands away, held them in his.
She closed her eyes a moment to block out the enormity of what had happened—she’d succeeded, the ring had succeeded, Kirsten hadn’t killed him. But what if she’d been two yards farther away? What if she hadn’t acted fast enough? Savich would be dead; his life would have been snuffed out by that psychopath.
“Yes, all of us are all right,” he said, keeping his voice flat and soothing. “She’s gone now, Lucy.”
“Yes, she’s gone.”
“Lucy—”
She pulled away from him and leaned back against the oak tree. She began to laugh, and her laughter became wild, uncontrolled.
Savich heard that laugh, saw that she was shaking, her eyes dilated, her face dead white. He began rubbing her arms as he said very slowly, knowing he himself wasn’t all that steady, “You were standing way over there, Lucy, Sherlock and Coop with you. I stood up with the bottles of lemonade, and suddenly here you were, smashing into me; then there was a shot. How did you get here so fast?”
Her laugher slowly died.
“Lucy, how did you know Kirsten was even here?”
“Thank God you’re all right, Dillon,” she said again, reached out her hand and cupped his face in her palm.
“Hey!” It was Coop, and he was panting, frowning at the two of them. “What happened, Lucy? I saw you plow into Savich. Did you see her? What’s going on? You look like you’re freezing.” He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it around her shoulders.
Sherlock, clutching a crying Sean close, was on Coop’s heels. She stared from her husband to Lucy, her heart pounding hard and fast, fear so thick in her throat she could only get his name out before her throat closed. “Dillon—”
He touched her, then lightly stroked Sean’s head. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Hey, Sean, everything’s okay.” He looked at Lucy, who was staring down at her feet. He looked back at Sherlock, and a very clear, silent message passed between them.
He held both Sherlock and Sean tightly against him. “Lucy knocked me flat; she was protecting me. I’m fine. Now, Sean, Mommy’s going to take you back to the car, and I’ll be with you guys in a minute, okay?”
But Sherlock wasn’t about to leave him, and so Savich kept talking to Sean, who was still clutching his Frisbee tight in his hand. Savich looked over at Lucy. “How did you ever see Kirsten before she shot at me, Lucy?”
Lucy simply shook her head and turned at the sound of sirens, growing louder by the second.
Coop said, “Remember how Mr. Lansford bragged about how he’d taught Kirsten to shoot a rifle? Thank God she missed you.”
“Yes, she missed me,” Savich said, “but only because of Lucy.” He hugged her to him. “Thank you, Lucy Carlyle, for saving my life.”
