“We’ll find out soon enough, either way,” Babcock said.
Savich said, “Xu’s got to be somewhat panicked. No, don’t listen to me, I’m too tired to think straight. He’s survived this long by staying cool and always using his brain. Everyone is focused on small medical offices and walk-in clinics, especially those with a Chinese clientele. He probably knows some doctors who cater to people at the Chinese consulate, take care of their families. I wonder if we can find out who those doctors are.”
“Probably already done,” Babcock said, “I wonder how he expects to get out of here?”
Officer Cluney said, “I would drive out of California, maybe to Utah or Nevada, stay away from the airports for a while.”
Savich said, “You’re probably right, if he’s well enough to drive that far. Now that his cover is gone and we know he didn’t shoot either Ramsey or Sherlock, it’s the second shooter we have to guard against.”
Cluney said, “If they don’t know each other, how lucky is that for Xu?”
Babcock said, “I’ll bet Xu’s putting him in high on his nighttime prayer list. Agent Savich, you can relax. With four of us around the clock, how could this second guy possibly believe he could get to either Sherlock or Judge Hunt in here?”
“How? Remember the elevator?” Savich snapped his fingers. “He came this close to killing Judge Hunt. Don’t forget, this guy prefers the elaborate over the simple and straightforward. The more convoluted and intricate he can make his plans, the bigger the rush he gets.”
Babcock said, “But he’s failed twice. Doesn’t he realize that we all know now he’s the danger and not Xu?”
Savich said, “But the only reason we do know is because he led us right to it, by shooting Sherlock with Xu in sight, and by leaving that note. Now he wants us to know.”
Babcock said, “I don’t understand why he doesn’t simply wait. Say a month, even another year. If it’s revenge we’re talking here, what’s the rush?”
Savich said, “That note was a challenge, and he’ll see himself as a failure if he doesn’t get it done before we get him. It’s payback for him, and it will be fast, whatever he does.”
“It won’t matter,” Babcock said. “Everyone guarding Judge Hunt and Agent Sherlock knows exactly what we’re dealing with now. He won’t get near either of them.”
But when Savich drew the single blanket over himself on the cot, he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t about to let Sherlock out of his sight.
If they were right and the man had been in prison, what was he in for? Murder? Who was his payback for? A son, a friend, a brother, maybe a mother? He and MAX would find out.
Sherlock touched strands of bloody hair at the edge of the white bandage wrapped around her head that made her look like she’d walked out of a war zone. She wanted to do something about that before Dillon returned. She said to the nurse, “When can I get this white towel off my head? When can I wash my hair?”
“Actually, you look sort of cute with the white towel,” Nurse Washington said, patting her hand. “Once Dr. Kardak examines you, we’ll get your hair washed and change out the dressing for an adhesive strip that will cover your sutures. So how are you feeling, Agent Sherlock? Any headaches, dizziness, nausea? Were you able to sleep?”
Sherlock said, “The headache’s better this morning; it comes and goes. I felt a little dizzy when I first stood up. That’s about it.”
“Have you felt disoriented at all? Any mental side trips? Ah, here’s Dr. Kardak, to look at both you and Judge Hunt.”
Dr. Kardak said good morning to her and to Ramsey, then took her chart from Nurse Washington and hummed in approval as he read it. He looked up at her. “I heard Nurse Washington ask if you had any disorientation, any mental side trips? An interesting way of putting it, yet perfectly clear.”
“Harry Potter World might be fun, but no, I haven’t been taking any trips in my head. My orientation’s fine.”
Dr. Kardak nodded, pulled the curtain around them for privacy, and leaned down to plant his stethoscope on her chest. “You’ve had a mild traumatic brain injury,” he said. “You can expect the symptoms you’re having—what we call the post-concussion syndrome—to last a week or so, maybe longer. Now, I’m going to need your patience because we’re going to repeat the neurologic exam you had yesterday and ask you a few questions to test your memory, okay?”
“As long as we don’t forget to wash my hair,” Sherlock said.
When Dr. Kardak finished, he straightened, studied her face silently for a moment. “Your balance, your strength, your reflexes, your memory, everything looks good. I have to say, Agent, you’re the luckiest patient I’ve treated in some time. Your scan from yesterday looks normal, except for your scalp injury. To be shot in the head and sustain no structural brain injury or bleeding, no cracked skull, no visible swelling, is amazing. I would think, though, that most people who’ve had your experience might consider a career change.”
Sherlock said, “I realize I was incredibly lucky and I am immensely grateful for that. To be honest here, what happened at the Fairmont, well, I guess you could say it came out of the blue, so there was no way to do my job and avoid it.” She grinned up at him. “It could have happened to anyone.”
He said, “In that case, Agent Sherlock, I hope your luck continues for your next three lifetimes. As for your husband, I must tell you the man’s a wreck, but, naturally, he believes he has to appear calm and in control around you. My prescription is for both of you to take a break and hug each other really tight, all right?”
Sherlock nodded and felt a stab of guilt. With so much flying around them, they couldn’t take a break, but she surely could hug him. She said, “Yes, I can do that.”
“I want you to rest this morning, and by that I mean no chatting up Judge Dredd here. If you’re not sleeping, you’re to lie here nice and calm and quiet. I’ll leave the curtain between the two of you so you’re not tempted to talk shop. With a bullet wound such as you’ve had, I like to repeat the CT scan to make sure there’s no delayed swelling or bleeding. I doubt there will be. If everything looks good I want you to continue resting this afternoon, let your brain and body settle and heal. Depending on how you feel, we can talk this afternoon about whether we’ll have the pleasure of your company through Thanksgiving, Agent Sherlock. How does it sound if we plan to release you Friday morning?”
“No can do, Dr. Kardak. I’ve got a five-year-old son who doesn’t need to see his mother lying in a hospital bed. I’d like to leave this afternoon.”
He studied her face for a moment. “Five years old, you say? What’s his name?”
“Sean. He’s the image of his papa. He plans to marry three different girls. He’s also planning on working three jobs so they’ll all be happy.”
Dr. Kardak chuckled. “Sean sounds like my kid Peter, all mouth and laughter and boundless energy. There aren’t any girls yet on Peter’s somewhat limited horizon.” He looked toward the curtain, called out, “Judge Hunt, how long have you two known each other?”
“More than five years,” Ramsey said from behind the curtain. “When I first met Sherlock, she was three months pregnant, throwing up whenever anyone in her hearing said the word
“Oh, goodness, I’d forgotten,” Sherlock said. “I remember belting Dillon a couple of times when he let the word slip out.”
Dr. Kardak pursed his lips. “I’m going to mention that to one of my shrink friends.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s a practicing Freudian therapist. I shudder to think what he’ll have to say.” He studied Sherlock for a moment longer. “Very well, if nothing unexpected shows up, you may go home, but you’re to rest, let everyone wait on you. You are not to bake even the sweet-potato casserole, you understand me?”
Sherlock nodded. “I won’t even make my sausage stuffing. Promise.”
