Backfire

When he’d finally fallen into a restless slept last night, she stretched out on the bed beside him and listened to him breathe. She realized she hadn’t slept beside a man in a very long time. It felt strange to hear another’s breathing so close beside her. He woke her up once when he started talking in his sleep. And now she knew something about who and what this man was—not only a killer, as she was, but mixed up with the Chinese—a spy, maybe? And he was piss-in-the-pants afraid of them. I end up with the weirdest people, Charlene thought. Her son was kind of weird, of course, but he wasn’t stupid, he was—off. He hadn’t deserved to die, hadn’t deserved to be murdered by that miserable judge.

Her familiar rage kicked in, made her mind hiss and crackle. It wasn’t right what happened to Sonny. What had happened to him was the real crime. Imagine a federal judge murdering a man in his hospital bed? And every one of those crooked cops had covered for him, nothing but sympathy for him because of pathetic little Emma. Emma—Charlene hated that name now. She figured the kid and her mom had moved to a safe house after she’d left that phone message for little Molly, since when she’d last driven by, the house was empty. She’d find them, follow the kid from school, maybe.

Emma, Emma, Emma, the name drummed louder and louder in Charlene’s brain. Get it back, get it back, focus, focus.

She blinked, again focused on Joe. He’d been thrashing around, a fever, and she’d fetched him three aspirin and some water, and cupped his head. He never opened his eyes, but she already knew his eyes showed a life ancient with violence, far more than she could imagine. As she’d looked down at him in the dim motel room light she realized he might have made a fine son. There was something about Joe Keats, whose real name was Xu— maybe his will to survive, she wasn’t sure—but he impressed her. Regardless of what he was or what he’d done, he was a man who didn’t whine or complain or strike out. Well, she’d see about striking out.

He healed amazingly fast, she’d thought, when she’d tended his wound earlier. The flesh around the wound was pink, and healthy-looking. She hadn’t seen any blood crusted around the stitches. And now Joe was sleeping. He’d sworn to her he could drive. She’d told him he should get rid of that blue Honda he’d lifted in Sausalito. As soon as they were away, he’d told her—best not to leave it at the motel. Well, if he got himself killed because of that stupid car, it was his business. She was driving her own car, bought and paid for in Stockton from a little old man going into a nursing home.

The bell tinkled when Charlene pushed open the door and strolled into the motel office, cash in her hand. Jerol was sitting behind a counter loaded down with piles of brochures for local sights. Joe was spot-on about him —Jerol was playing a computer game, all his attention on some military figures fighting on the screen, its gunshots, loud bangs, and booms punctuated by his grunts and cheers.

Joe’s Beretta was snug against her side, just in case, since you never knew when some snake might up and try to bite you.

She spotted an ancient TV propped up on a portable serving table. It was tuned to a local news channel. The weather report was segueing into the news. The spit dried in her mouth. Her photo appeared on-screen followed by Joe’s. The volume was turned low, but she could hear the newsman talking about Joe. Hurry, get checked out or the moron might look up, see the photos, and call the cops. She moved to stand squarely between the kid and the TV.

“Hey, I was looking at that bad guy on TV.”

Well, that settles that, she thought, feeling the Beretta warm against her palm. No choice now.

She smiled and said, her voice loud to drown out the TV, “Hey, do you have any brochures on Six Flags Discovery Kingdom up in Vallejo? That’s the new name of the place, right? I’m thinking my friend and I would like to check it out tomorrow.”

“Who’s your friend?” Jerol Idling said, his voice impatient. He’d been close to scoring another hundred points and needed only one more good kill, but he’d happened to look up at the TV when she came in and there was a photo of some guy and they were blaring how dangerous he was, how he’d set off the Fairmont fire and murdered some people, and the weird thing was, the man looked familiar. Jerol knew he’d seen him, but where?

Charlene studied his face as she said, “My friend’s name is Joe—” She stalled. What had Joe called himself when he’d checked into this place? Cribbs, that was it. “I’m with Joe Cribbs. He’s in two-seventeen.”

Jerol wanted to see the man’s photo again on the TV, but this woman was standing right in front of him. “Mr. Cribbs didn’t say anything about a friend coming.” His mom hated guests coming in unannounced ever since six college students had snuck into one room to spend the weekend. He’d been only seventeen at the time, but he still remembered the mess they’d made. Not that this old lady was likely to make a mess, not like those beer-guzzling yahoos, but still. “When did you show up?”

Rude little bugger, Charlene thought, leaned toward the kid, showing him a cleavage she’d learned to make by pushing in her elbows and leaning over. She could push them nearly to her tonsils, and there weren’t that many wrinkles. The two truckers in Bakersfield she’d tried it out on were distracted quickly enough. “Last night. So you got any brochures?”

“Yeah, we even got brochures for mud baths in Calistoga if you want. Is Mr. Cribbs feeling better? He looked pretty bad when he checked in yesterday. I mean, he was all hunched over, and I knew he didn’t feel good. Do you know, he looks kind of like—”

Charlene said quickly, “He’s fine, only a flu of some sort.”

“Hey, aren’t you a little old for Mr. Cribbs? I mean, like his mother?”

Well, now, that’s quite enough out of you. Charlene raised her hand and shot him in the face with Xu’s Beretta. As she fired, she jumped back. She didn’t want his blood to splatter on her clothes.

Judge Sherlock’s home

Pacific Heights, San Francisco

Thursday night

Savich punched off his cell. He watched Sean happily playing an NFL video game with his grandmother, who knew squat about football, and he was winning. He wondered if Sean was smart enough to be on the 49ers’ side in the game and not the Redskins’. He leaned down and said quietly to Sherlock, “Cheney said they’re getting about fifty calls an hour on the hotline with sightings of Xu and/or Charlene. The SFPD has provided some manpower to sift through the calls, since the field office hasn’t the staff to do it.”

“At least we can discount the calls that have Xu walking around, since he isn’t,” Sherlock said. She rubbed her hands over her arms.

“Cold?”

“No, I guess someone walked over my grave. I wonder where that saying comes from. It’s pretty gruesome.”

“But descriptive. What did you feel?”

“I’m worried that something bad’s going to happen, Dillon. Soon.”

He didn’t say anything. He pulled her to her feet, then sat down and brought her down on his lap and held her. He knew she was right, something bad had to happen, with two armed and desperate people out there, their pictures all over TV.

After they got Sean bathed and buttoned into his Spider-Man pajamas, they got him down but, unfortunately, not out. He couldn’t stop talking. He was too excited about how he’d stomped his grandmother at NFL football. He had, to Savich’s surprise, gone for the Patriots. Savich finally sang him his favorite song of all time, guaranteed to put him out by the end of the first verse—“You’ve Got a Friend in Me” from Toy Story.

Sherlock was grinning when Sean’s eyes closed. “Every time,” she whispered.

They were getting ready for bed when Savich’s cell rang.

“Savich here.”

He was quiet, listening, his expression unchanging, but Sherlock saw his eyes darken. The bad something had