so we’ll be able to get around. Now, let me give you over to Sherlock before she rips the phone out of my hand.”
“Jack? It’s Sherlock. Mr. Maitland called us around seven-thirty this morning, said you went down—you bozo, do you swear to me you’re okay?”
Jack smiled. “Oh yeah, an angel saved me, but...”
“But what?”
“It’s Timothy. He could be badly hurt. Like I told Savich, he’s lying unconscious in Rachael’s car, which is broken down on the side of the road. We had to leave him there to get help.”
“All right, I’ll make a call, set up getting him medevaced to the closes trauma center. I’ll get back to you. Jack, please tell me there is some sort of mechanical malfunction.” He was aware that Rachael was studying his face, listening to every word he said. He said only, “Very probably not.”
Savich came back on. “Okay we’ll figure it out. I’ll call Mr. Maitland. He’ll get an expert out there to take a look at the plane. You need a doctor, don’t you? Wait, Sherlock’s got the medevac people, and they need to know exactly where Dr. MacLean is. Jack, you there?”
Jack felt his brain wafting away, and what was worse, he welcomed it. “Sherlock? I guess you’d best have Rachael tell you.”
Rachael took the phone from Jack and watched him collapse into one of the ancient, nubby gray easy chairs. She listened, then told the woman the location of her car, adding, “I’m very glad you’re coming because Jack needs help. As he told you, my car broke down, so we’re walking. We’ll meet you in whatever medical facility they have in Parlow. He’s got a concussion, he thinks, and his leg was hurt by a piece of debris from the plane. I’ll stay with him until you get here.”
“Thank you very much for helping him. We’re still a couple of hours away. What’s your name?”
But Rachael had hung up. Jack was barely conscious. SIX
Dr. Post straightened as Nurse Harmon ushered a man and a woman into the small examining room. Sherlock stood in the doorway, staring at Jack, who was stretched out on his back with a sheet pulled to his waist, his shirt hanging open. A young woman was leaning over him, her long hair hiding her profile, carefully soaping the black off his face. There was a braid hanging down from her side part.
“Jack?” Sherlock took a quick step forward.
“Is that you, Sherlock? You look hot in that black leather jacket. Excuse me, but I’m not really with it,” and his eyes closed.
Dr. Post said, “Don’t worry, he’s asleep again, mostly from the medication. Let’s let him rest, all right?”
Sherlock drew a deep breath, smiled at the doctor. “I’m Agent Sherlock, this is Agent Savich, FBI. And this is Agent Jackson Crowne.”
“I know. He was awake enough to tell me when I found them on my doorstep.”
The woman standing over Jack straightened. “I’m Rachael,” she said. “I’ve been helping Jack.” She didn’t say another word. When Jack had identified himself to Dr. Post, she knew she was cursed. This was all she needed. And now there were three feds, all in the same small room with her.
Sherlock asked Dr. Post, “Tell us exactly what’s wrong with him.”
Dr. Post said, “He’s got a concussion and he isn’t going to feel too happy about it for a while. We don’t have an MRI in town, but the CAT scan didn’t show any abnormalities.
“He had a nice gash on his leg, but he was lucky, didn’t hit anything major, just needed some of my pretty stitches. I’ve put him on antibiotics and some pain meds. I’d like to let him rest for a while, but he should be all right. I’d like to keep him overnight, to make sure nothing else develops.
“I’ve invested lots of time in him and I don’t want him to leave the clinic and collapse on his face, undo any of my excellent work.”
Dr. Post looked curiously at the two FBI agents, who looked so relieved they were ready to high-five him.
“I guess you guys work together? Maybe you’re here on a case?”
Savich said, “Yes.”
Dr. Post pointed at Rachael. “She told me she isn’t his wife.”
Sherlock said, “No, she isn’t, but he’s going to think I’m his mother when he wakes up, because I’m going to chew his butt for scaringussobadly.”
Dr. Post laughed. “Okay, are you going to tell me what’s happening? The reason I’m asking is right after these two staggered into my clinic, I heard an ambulance heading through town, sirens blasting. Is someone else hurt?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Thank you for taking care of him.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Post.
Savich looked at Rachael. “So you’re Jack’s savior.”
Rachael still couldn’t believe it. FBI agents, all three of them. When she and Jack had stumbled up the steps to the clinic, Dr. Post was unlocking the front door, balancing a cup of coffee in his free hand. Jack had pulled out his ID and flashed it to the startled doctor.
And she thought again, why couldn’t Jack have been a nice rent-a-pilot? No, he was an FBI agent, a fed whose bosses could be all chummy with Quincy and Laurel, who might be bought or influenced, defer to them because of their power—no, she wasn’t going there.
As long as these three federal agents didn’t find out her full name, she was safe, she’d be okay. She’d still be dead.
She knew every bureaucracy leaked like a sieve, the FBI included. No, she’d be very careful, she’d lie well, a novel experience for her. She smiled. “I’m Rachael.” She shook their hands.
Savich said, “I understand you watched Agent Crowne’s plane come down and you helped both Jack and Dr. MacLean.” He stepped forward, stuck out his hand. “We’d like to thank you for seeing to them, Ms... .”
“Oh no, he’s not my sheriff, Agent Savich. I’ve never been to Parlow before. I’m only passing through.”
Savich nodded, but his head cocked to the side, and he studied her face closely. Looking at that small clever braid, he decided Sherlock would look very sexy with one. “Well then, we’re all strangers here. Hopefully the sheriff will come soon.”
Dr. Post saw the big tough-looking man look down at—of all things—a Mickey Mouse watch, and frown.
‘We owe you big-time, Ms. Abercrombie,” said Sherlock.
“Oh no, please,” said Rachael, “Jack saved both of them. He pulled Dr. MacLean out of the plane before it exploded. I didn’t do all that much—call me the mule.”
Dr. Post said, “Deliah—that’s Nurse Harmon—told me Dougie—that’s Sheriff Hollyfield—had a septic tank problem this morning and that’s why he’s running a bit late. But he’ll get here, he always does.” He looked at them all closely. “I’ve never met any FBI agents before.”
Sherlock said, “He eats Cheerios for breakfast with our son, Sean,” and smiled. “I eat a slice of wheat toast with crunchy peanut butter.”
Dr. Post laughed. “Just plain folk? Maybe, but not to me. The two of you, you’re both FBI agents and you’re married, and you work together?”
“That’s right,” Savich said.
Dr. Post picked up Jack’s gun, which was sitting on top of the counter, next to his dirty, ripped slacks. “My dad owned a Kimber Gold Match 11. It’s a fine gun.”
“Agent Crowne believes it’s efficient,” Savich said easily, and held out his hand. Dr. Post gave him the Kimber, butt first.
“A ten-round magazine?”
