“Or he didn’t leave willingly,” Dix said. “He told someone that you and I had been to see him. You know it had to be Pallack, there’s simply no one else. And Pallack panicked? About what?”
“David’s been missing only a day and a half. You spoke to the Atlanta detective who’s on the case.”
“Yeah, the cops blew off Whitney Jones’s pleas for help yesterday, stating the party line—a day hadn’t even passed, and did they have a fight, was there another guy, another girl? But then, bless her heart, Whitney was bright enough to tell them about David meeting with the FBI.”
Ruth grinned down at him. “That sure woke them up, and a very good thing. You know they’re digging to locate him since the FBI is involved, for whatever reason. What did you tell the detective?”
“A bit of the truth, enough to whet his curiosity.” Ruth said, “Well, if they can’t find him, I know we will, Dix.” He chewed on his misery for a moment, then Ruth said, “What did you think of our seance this evening?”
What he’d felt had been stark moments of anger—at being there wasting his time, having to deal with what he couldn’t explain, couldn’t see, didn’t want to begin to accept, but he said only, with some contempt in his voice, “I was too tense even to be entertained by Tammerlane’s show. It was a waste of time. On the other hand, I finally got to meet a couple of crackpot psychics.” He added, “They were interesting characters, I’ll have to admit that.”
“So you think it was all B.S.?”
“No,” he said, “that’s oversimplifying it. But all the discussion about telepathy, Wallace Tammerlane sitting over there, humming, for God’s sake, trying to communicate to another psychic, and all of us sitting on the sofas, holding hands like a bunch of dummies, with the light dimmed.” He sighed. “All so Tammerlane could reach Kathryn Golden with his mind.”
And he snorted his disgust. Ruth was so charmed she kissed him. She raised her head, touched a fingertip to his mouth, and said, “You certainly have a way of cutting right to the heart of things, don’t you? Haven’t you told me how you sometimes felt Christie close by and you told her things about what was happening with you and the boys?”
“That’s nothing more than my subconscious self trying to find some comfort.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Go to sleep, Dix.” She kissed him again, settled back against his side, her head on his shoulder, and about thirty seconds later she was down for the count herself.
In the last room down the hall, Savich quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock over Sean’s head. He was snuggled between them, his toy Porsche Carrera tucked against his chest, snoring lightly. “I like the bright red,” Savich said, sighing. He could still see his own beloved Porsche exploding in a raging ball of flame in the midst of utter chaos that black night at the Bonhomie Club, leaving nothing to salvage but a single shiny hubcap that had rolled down the sidewalk. The hubcap was hanging on the wall in his garage.
Sherlock said, “It’s been what, three months? I’m thinking you’ve mourned your Porsche long enough. Maybe it’s time for you to graduate from driving my Volvo. My Volvo feels your pain, and it lowers her self-esteem when you compare her to the Porsche, and find her so lacking. I heard one of the agents say driving the Volvo was going to break your spirit.”
Savich very nearly shuddered whenever he had to drive the stalwart Volvo. He fondly recalled the sheer power of his Porsche, its temper when another car got too close, its spurt of insane speed when he needed it. He sighed. “It always seems like we’re up to our ears in something—like now. Here we are in San Francisco dealing with psychics and assassins.”
“We’ll get through it, we always do. Hey, maybe by this weekend.”
“That might not be so crazy. Things are coming together fast now.”
“I know, they are.” Sherlock kissed him, then leaned over to kiss the back of Sean’s small head. “He’s got so much black hair, just like yours.” Beautiful smooth shiny hair, not a single twisty curl or kinky wave, not like hers. “He’s out,” she whispered, and settled in. “I’ll take him back in a moment.”
“After his nightmare last night, I’m thinking maybe he should stay with us tonight. It’s the strange-house-and- bed syndrome, no one his age does all that well with it.”
“Did my mom tell you that after she and Graciella took Sean to the zoo, they hit the crooked block of Lombard Street? Sean was so excited he wanted her to drive it three times.”
“Graciella told me. Your dad is taking him down to the courthouse tomorrow, introducing him to some of the clerks, interns, and judges. He even promised him he’d show him a crook or two—I think he meant a defense lawyer, but I’m not sure.”
She smiled as she reached out to touch his face. “Are you still freaked out about what happened at Tammerlane’s?”
“No. Sweetheart, I don’t want any of the others to know about what happened, okay?”
“Nor should they,” Sherlock said, and yawned. “I can’t begin to imagine what Director Mueller would say if he heard you’d cell-phoned a kidnapped psychic without the cell phone.”
Despite the strange bed and all the excitement, all three were soon asleep, Savich the last to fall.
Toward morning he dreamed of Kathryn Golden. She was alone again, in a closet, bound to a chair, her hair hanging over her face. She seemed to be asleep. He wanted to speak to her, but somehow no words came from his mouth or into his mind. She never stirred. He came abruptly awake, his heart pounding. What had that been about? He looked at the digital clock next to the bed. It was nearly five o’clock.
He knew there’d be no more sleep. He quietly left the bed, tucking in the covers around Sean’s neck, lightly touching Sherlock’s shoulder. She was smiling in her sleep. He looked down at the two most important people in his life and felt overwhelming gratitude.
He pulled on his pants, picked up MAX, and headed down-stairs to the Sherlock gym. He drew up short, seeing Cheney sleeping on the narrow cot, sprawled on his back, arms and legs over the sides of the bed, deeply asleep. No way was he going to wake him. He went to his father-in-law’s study, and set to work. He wanted to know more about the Pallacks’ murder in 1977 and all about the man who’d butchered them, Courtney James. He frankly didn’t think he’d find anything useful, but who knew what might pop up?
