tops. I think I’ll call Dillon, see what’s happened.”
Rozan said it aloud: “Xu killed a physician, the one who treated him.”
She nodded. “Yes, I was told.” She closed her eyes against the stark knowledge of it. She’d been so close, she thought. She’d had Xu flat on his face against the sidewalk. If only she’d had time to get the other cuff on him. If only.
“We’re ready for your test now, Agent Sherlock.” Sherlock looked up to see a tall, lanky tech standing beside Deputy Rozan, wearing scrubs, a mask over his nose, green booties on his feet. He had a sheaf of papers in his gloved hand.
Deputy Rozan said, “I need to see your ID.”
The man turned, clearly startled. “Are you her husband, sir?”
“No, I’m Deputy Rozan. She’s in my care. Show me your ID, please.”
“Well, you can see my name tag, and here are the orders for Agent Sherlock’s CT scan, signed by Dr. Kardak.”
“Why don’t you have a hospital ID?”
“It’s in my locker. I usually wear it, but no one ever asks for it.”
“Then show me your driver’s license.”
Savich burst into the waiting room, saw the tech, masked, standing too close to Rozan, and raised his SIG. “Get back and drop to your knees!”
The man dropped Sherlock’s chart and fell to his knees on the floor. Savich, panting hard from running, stood over him.
The man looked up at him, obviously terrified. “Who are you? What did I do?”
Rozan said, “He didn’t have his hospital ID, and I’d just asked him for his driver’s license when you, ah, came in, Agent Savich.”
“Lose the mask,” Savich said.
The man pulled the ties loose. The mask fell off his face. “My name’s Terry Lempert; see, my name’s on my name tag. Why are you pointing that gun at me?”
Savich put his SIG back in his waist holster.
A nurse came to the door. “What’s going on here? Goodness, Terry, what did you do now?”
Sherlock said calmly, “Officer Rozan is my guard, and this is my husband. I guess you’d say he’s part of the guard detail for me. He thought this man was a threat to me. Do you know him? Can you verify he’s supposed to be here? To take me in for a CT scan?”
The nurse looked toward Rozan.
“Yes,” Rozan said. “Can you identify this man for us?”
She said, “I’ve known him for nearly ten years. It’s Terry Lempert. He’s been known to flirt with pretty patients, though, and I thought he’d gone over the top this time.” She watched the husband pull Terry to his feet.
“Very funny, Kaitlyn,” Terry said, dusting off his knees. “I wasn’t doing anything, really.”
Savich said, “Sorry, Mr. Lempert. You really should consider wearing your ID, given all that’s happened here the past week.”
Lempert said, “Yeah, oh, yes, right. You nearly made me mess myself.”
“He didn’t shoot you,” Officer Rozan said, and smiled, shook Lempert’s hand. “You’ll be fine. You did good.”
Savich walked to where Sherlock sat smiling, of all things, in her wheelchair. She laid her hand on his arm. “My hero.”
“Terry, go get your ID. Then you can take over Jonah’s case in room three. Jonah can deal with Agent Sherlock. Next time, don’t wear a mask when you fetch a patient. I’ve told you it freaks them out.” She shot a look at Savich. “And their husbands.”
Savich rested one hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sorry, Terry,” he said. “But if anything happened to Sherlock, I’d lose my job.”
Terry was very pleased to take over Jonah’s case, even if it was a ninety-year-old curmudgeon from Fresno who did nothing but cuss at him.
Xu was trying to sleep, but it was hard, since he felt like crap. After leaving Dr. Chu’s clinic yesterday afternoon, he’d barely made it across the Richmond Bridge and was glad to find this hole-in-the-wall motel near the highway. He wished he’d made it farther, but it was impossible, not until he was stronger. He had not taken enough oxycodone to kill his pain entirely because he couldn’t allow himself to get completely helpless. It was what a stupid man would do, and he hadn’t survived by being stupid. He would make peace with the grinding pain.
Xu knew what this pain would be like, since he’d been shot once before. One of his trainers in the army compound outside Beijing had accidentally shot him in the leg, the blind moron. He remembered his trainer Mr. Yeung had actually cried over him, which was the only reason Xu hadn’t tried to kick his stomach through his backbone.
His arm would heal, Dr. Chu had assured him several times, and he’d be well enough to fly anywhere in three or four days. Xu knew from his other gunshot wound that he wouldn’t have full use of his arm for several months. At least the bullet hadn’t shattered any bones on its way out of his arm.
Dr. Chu had known not to ask what had happened when Xu showed him his wound and his gun. He’d calmly sent his office staff home before he ushered Xu into one of the clinic exam rooms, helped him out of his blood- soaked jacket and his shirt, and settled him on the examining table. He’d asked absolutely nothing while he’d worked on him, but Dr. Chu had known. The doctor had given him intravenous morphine and Versed. Xu had watched him as he began silently cleaning out and suturing his wound. Xu had floated away, only vaguely aware of what Dr. Chu was doing. He remembered lying stretched out on Dr. Chu’s examining table until he thought he could drive safely. He’d asked to take a Windbreaker with him he’d seen on a hanger in a hallway, and Dr. Chu had helped him put it on. It was large enough to fit over his arm without too much pain and zip over the bandage, since his shirt wasn’t salvageable. Dr. Chu had told him to wait while he brought him antibiotics and pain meds from his office. He hadn’t realized Xu had followed him down the hallway and could hear him speaking.
He heard Dr. Chu say, “I need to speak to the police about the fire at the Fairmont today. I know what happened.”
Xu had no time for thought. He’d stepped into the small office, aimed his Beretta at Dr. Chu, who heard him and looked up and threw the phone at him as Xu pulled the trigger. Xu watched him slide down behind his desk. He heard a voice on the phone saying, “Sir, who is this? What do you want again? You said you knew about the Fairmont fire?”
Xu hung up the phone, took some antibiotics and oxycodone, and walked out of the clinic.
It was too bad about Dr. Chu. Xu appreciated what the doctor had done for him. The doctor was collateral damage, and he’d still be alive if he’d had better judgment.
The FBI knew who he was and knew what he looked like; they had to, since they’d found him, probably through Cindy. He’d been too late after all. His passport and his visa were useless to him, but he knew where he could get others. At least they didn’t have a clue where he was now or where he was going to be soon enough. It was then he realized, paralyzed for a moment, that neither did he. He’d dumped the white Infiniti on one of Sausalito’s curving streets and hot-wired a dark blue Honda parked nearby. He should have gone farther away to find a car, but he’d simply been too weak.
Xu pulled the cheap motel blanket up to his neck, settled his wounded arm on one of the skinny pillows. First he had to heal. He could hardly fly to Beijing into the arms of the Chinese, not now, even if a false passport got him
